To keep things hot there are four pole-dancers in thongs on a podium in the middle of the tables. Nancy, US-style. Montoya takes refuge at the bar and orders a brandy. Sniffs it. Not bad. Warms it. Good even. Whatever happens, his evening won’t be completely wasted. His eyes begin to adjust to the dark. There are a lot of people already on the dance floor, with at least fifty, skimpily-dressed women, not all hookers. Not far from him, seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor is a group of five young — or youngish — men. They’re all tall and well-built, with close-cropped hair, tight-fitting T-shirts and tattoos. They’re joking and drinking among themselves like a sports team playing away. The mercenaries. It was a good idea to come here.
While there could be wives in the room, the girls hanging around the bar are all hookers hanging out for punters. Another brandy. Montoya leans towards the barman and says loudly enough to make himself heard above the techno beat: ‘Do you know if Mr Quignard is here tonight? I’m looking for him and I can’t see him.’ The barman glances distractedly around the room.
‘I can’t see him either, sir.’
‘He told me he’d be here. I was hoping to meet him …’
The barman lets the conversation die. Montoya turns back to face the room. A buxom blonde in pastel pink and blue, skirt slit to the waist and a tight top with a plunging neckline, comes over to him and lays a hand on his arm.
‘I’m Deborah. Anyone who’s a friend of my friend Quignard is a friend of mine. He’s not here tonight. If he were, I’d know. But you can take his place.’
‘I can try.’
‘He usually starts with a bottle of champagne.’
Montoya signals to the barman, picks up the bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, and they go and sit at a vacant table on the edge of the dance floor. The barman gazes after them. A few metres away one of the mercenaries is dancing with a couple. He’s removed his T-shirt and is showing off his scars, a star-shaped hole in his left shoulder and a long, straight, clean line on his chest, near the heart. The evidence of his mistakes, of his professional errors, thinks Montoya. The woman dancer, a somewhat insipid dark-haired woman in her forties, runs her finger over them, as if tracing a new map of Love. The handsome mercenary is wearing a very long white silk scarf around his neck which he uses to lasso the woman, moving her between the husband and himself.
‘Pour a drink my friend, and don’t forget about me.’
Montoya slides a hand inside her top, pops out a nipple and bites it playfully.
‘How could I forget you, madam?’
She laughs. ‘Quignard isn’t so imaginative.’ She loosens Montoya’s tie and unbuttons his shirt. ‘Let’s go and dance.’
A chore. Montoya moves as little as possible and in the darkness concentrates on trying not to lose contact with Quignard’s friend who goes wild to the beat of the music, both breasts now bouncing free. Montoya has to raise his voice loudly to make himself heard.
‘Quignard told me he’s very friendly with the owner of the Oiseau Bleu.’
A wink. ‘That’s true.’
‘Have they known each other long?’
‘I’ve been here for six months and I always see them together.’
A man has slipped between the girl and him, Montoya is yanked violently back and tripped up. He falls on to some cushions to find the man with the white scarf leaning over him. He looks more intimidating from this angle. The Incredible Hulk personified grabs his shirt collar with one hand and plants him back on his feet with no apparent effort. Another mercenary draws the curtains around the alcove, frisks him, finds his ID, reads it and tells the Hulk, with a grimace: ‘Journalist.’ Montoya tries to keep both men in his field of vision. The ringleader shakes him.
‘Why are you asking about Quignard? What do you want of Quignard, eh?’
Think fast. A suicide can happen so easily. Maximum concentration.
‘I don’t want anything. Just to have a bit of fun with a girl, like everyone else here, right?’ The second man has come to stand beside his chief, blocking the entrance to the alcove. My back’s clear, now’s my chance. Fuck you.
The chief swings back his arm and delivers a blow fit to stun an ox. Montoya ducks it by rotating his body slightly around the hand gripping his collar, then follows through his attacker’s movement with both arms, knocking him off balance. As he topples forward Montoya lunges and knees him in the groin. A howl. Then an explosion. Pitch darkness. The world quakes. Montoya is lifted in the air as his opponent seems to have disintegrated, and lands flat on his back under a hail of rubble. His chest crushed, he pants in shallow breaths, the thick air feels like burning dust in his lungs. A bloody face, sticky at the corners of his mouth, under his hand. Total blackout. Blind? A plane engine roars in his head. Deaf? A reflex: get away. Crawl. A wall. Stands up. Stays upright. Feels like laughing, one thought: Get out of here. Follow the wall. Stumbles. Obstacles. Go round them, push them away. Soft moving masses, bodies? Step over. Legs feeling stronger and stronger. Taste of blood in his mouth. The staircase. Still in the dark. Several people trying to get out. A crush. At last, the street, fresh air, breathe, breathe, hiccup, spit, choke. No, he’s not blind, he can make out, behind a haze, the illuminated street, the façade of the Oiseau Bleu with its tropical forest intact. He makes a rapid inventory of his wounds. He can walk, he can breathe, blood on his face, running down his neck, superficial wounds to his head. Vaguely hears the sirens of the fire engines getting closer. Not deaf either. For now, don’t try and understand, grab your chance and get the hell out. Things were turning nasty down there. 25 October
Quignard finds the usual pile of national dailies on the back seat of his waiting Mercedes. They are folded over twice, and inside them is a set of clearly contrasted black-and-white photos. Without the least shade of doubt they show Park walking into the head office of Daewoo Poland; Park emerging and walking down the street; Park seated at a table in a cafe opposite a stranger; then Park coming out of a residential apartment block. There’s even a photo of him in pyjamas, standing at a bedroom window, opening the shutters. You can see the unmade bed. A calm man, always alone, going freely about his business, not in any way trying to hide. Worrying or reassuring? That remains to be seen: no choice. Tomaso the indispensable. The man of the moment.
He glances quickly at the headlines. One on page six of Libération catches his eye: “The law hits Lagardère in the wallet.” He skims the article: “The holding company’s payment system … a shareholder filed a complaint four years ago … legal proceedings have just concluded with Jean-Luc Lagardère being charged with the misuse of company money.”
Quignard settles back in his seat, torn between relief and anxiety. Lagardère’s tough enough to weather this kind of attack. Proceedings that dragged on for four years now reaching their climax … the competition is pulling out all the stops. When will it be our turn? With a loose cannon like Park roaming around just to make things worse … Yes, definitely, Tomaso is indispensable.
Mid-morning Quignard’s driver comes into his office.
‘Mr Tomaso’s just called me. He asked me to inform you that there was an explosion at the Oiseau Bleu last night.’ Quignard freezes. ‘As yet nobody knows what type of explosion or how it occurred. The boss is at the scene this morning, with the police.’