‘You’re the first to hear the news. Tomorrow it’ll be in the papers. The investigation into the Daewoo factory fire is over and the arsonist was arrested yesterday.’
Commotion. ‘Bravo … Terrific … That was really fast … Congratulations.’ The superintendent is beaming.
‘Yes, I think we can say it was an exemplary investigation, speedy and efficient.’
A big-shot notary from Nancy goes over to Quignard.
‘Congratulations. Tell me, Daewoo’s hit the jackpot with the Thomson privatisation. You’ve been keeping that close to your chest.’
‘Business isn’t bad, that’s for sure.’
‘Isn’t this fire likely to damage you?’
‘No, providing the investigation is closed quickly, as it has been. The arsonist is one of the factory workers who got overexcited. Nothing serious.’
An entrepreneur from the valley who prefers to hunt down EU subsidies, greatly indebted to Quignard, enquires after Park.
‘I thought he’d be here today …’
‘He’s gone back to Korea to review things with the parent company.’ Then with a broad smile: ‘I bet the beaters are relieved, he’s a lousy shot, a danger to the rest of us.’ Quignard raises his voice. ‘Come gentlemen, the break’s over. Two more beats before lunch.’
The beaters have already left. The hunters move off towards another field, other hides. Quignard and Tomaso bring up the rear, side by side. Daniel Tomaso slows down to keep pace with Quignard. On this glorious day, his feet in the clay of the Lorraine plateau, on the Grande Commune hunt, he feels a growing sense of elation. A lot of ground covered in a very short time. A black sheep, the Foreign Legion, a mercenary, Lebanon, Croatia, one training’s as good as another. Five years ago, sickened by the violence and penniless, he dropped everything to take over the garage in Nancy run by his father, until his recent death. A respectable business, nothing more. He expanded the garage, set up a limousine hire company with drivers and bodyguards, and then a security company. Next a nightclub, a brilliant idea of Kristina’s, the mistress he’d brought back from Croatia, to grab all those bourgeois provincials by the short and curlies. His business is booming. He knows he owes his success mainly to Quignard, and he knows that his invitation to the hunt is the equivalent of a formal introduction into local society and a reward for the successful conclusion of the Daewoo Pondange factory occupation and fire. He leans towards Quignard.
‘The case is closed, apparently.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘What about my security guards?’
‘Fine in every respect. During the investigation they changed direction as obediently as on the parade ground.’
A few steps in silence. Quignard greets the chairman of the regional council with a smile. They go a long way back: having both been in the OAS in Algeria when young, with a shared past they have tacitly agreed to keep quiet about, they had created a staunch closeness and complicity neither had ever betrayed. The chairman is in hide number one. Not a good position. So much the better. A mediocre shot. Tomaso resumes.
‘Do you really believe Park’s gone back to Korea?’
Surprised. ‘Yes. I asked for him and all the Korean managers to be recalled to the parent company. I felt they’d done enough harm as it was. Why?’
‘Park is a man who’s never suffered from scruples, if I’m not mistaken. He knows there’s a lot of money to be made, and fast. He has inside information, and he’s getting out?’
‘And where do you think he might be?’
‘Think, Maurice. Put yourself in his position. Where would you go to make your next move?’ Quignard walks on in silence for a few moments. Not for long.
‘Warsaw.’
‘Just what I was thinking.’
‘Now you’ve got me worried.’ A silence, an exchange of pleasantries as they walk past a magistrate newly appointed to the Briey courts.
‘Do you have any way of finding out if he’s over there?’
‘Perhaps. I have a car dealership network in Poland. Give me some photos, a description, I’ll see what I can do.’
Then Tomaso stops at hide number three, an excellent position for an excellent marksman, and Quignard continues. He has number fifteen, at the very end of the line, a shitty number. Nothing ever happens that far out. Sigh.
At number six, a Luxembourg banker is sitting on a folding hunting stool, his eyes half shut. Don’t be taken in, he’s quick off the mark, despite his corpulence. He’s CEO of Daewoo Pondange’s lead bank. The day after the fire, he agreed to defer all the firm’s payment dates. On condition that Quignard was put in sole charge. On condition that you return the favour sometime, dear friend. The two men exchange smiles.
At hide number ten, his son-in-law watches him arrive accompanied by Tomaso. First time this fellow’s invited to the Grande Commune hunt. I don’t know how wise that is. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his past, his nightclub, the Oiseau Bleu, his loud mistress and all the rumours about him in town. I’ll have to have a word with my father-in-law about it. Quignard stops and taps his son-in-law on the shoulder.
‘Bravo the lawyer. I don’t know how you wangled it with Karim Bouziane, and I don’t want to know. His testimony was decisive. The superintendent is delighted, and I owe you a big thank you.’
‘You’re most welcome. My pleasure.’
PART THREE
24 October
Quignard has maintained the habit of rising at dawn from his years of working in a factory. Breakfast is served on the ground floor, in the vast dining room which opens on to a terrace with a view over the entire valley. The Quignard residence is a small château, the former mansion of the owner of the ironworks, in the days when there were ironworks. He lives there alone with his wife since their only daughter got married and went to live in Nancy with her husband. He and his wife now live separate lives. She’s asleep somewhere upstairs while he eats breakfast alone in the monumental room, and that suits him fine. Less time wasted.
A chauffeur-driven black Mercedes waits at the foot of the white stone steps. Car and driver come courtesy of 3G. Tomaso is not unappreciative. Impeccable, as always. On the fawn leather back seat, Quignard finds the national dailies, which the driver brings him from Nancy. He flicks through them. Libération’s financial section is entirely taken up by a big article entitled: ‘Thomson Multimedia turns down Korean marriage offer.’ With a subheading: ‘The Daewoo affair: emotions run high.’ The opening lines read: ‘The unions are fighting to stop their factory and its technology from being sold to the Korean group.’ Half-smile. As long as there’s nothing more serious … He turns the page and moves on to the sports section.
Montoya reaches Pondange via the plateau road, around mid-morning. He stops before heading down into the valley and gazes at the town spread out in front of him. Thirty-five years since he left. Thirty-five years, a lifetime, my whole life, hold your breath, vertigo. On the edge of the plateau, high up, the old town with its ramparts and ancient houses, nothing’s changed. All around, descending down the valley, the workers’ houses and housing estates. A little further away, high up on the flanks of the valley and surrounded by greenery are the residences of the ironworks owners, and on the plateau, outside the town, two social housing estates. It’s all still there, but the street of factories along the river with its blast furnaces, the continuous fires hammering and puffing, the smoke and the smells, the men’s activity, their all-consuming passions, the powerful, violent town, its heart beating day and night, has all been swallowed up, wiped out. He knew it, but to see it … He didn’t want to come here. Liar. You had to come back sooner or later. Valentin simply gave you an excuse. Now look what’s become of Pondange, that monster you were so afraid of‚ amputated of its factory satellites, a little provincial town that’s had a facelift, repainted, neat and tidy, dozing deep in its green valley.