Last nighty‚ around three a.m., a mysterious explosion caused major damage to the premises of the Oiseau Bleu, the well-known Nancy nightclub. Was it accidental or deliberate? The state prosecutor, who has opened an investigation, is keeping an open mind. Some fifty casualties were treated at Nancy hospital, around thirty people have been kept in, but nobody is in a critical condition and there were no deaths. The Oiseau Bleu remains closed for the time being.
He turns off the radio and meticulously puts on a beige silk and cotton mix shirt. He does the buttons up slowly, one by one. Quignard is embroiled in this for sure. He had numerous opportunities to meet Tomaso in Brussels or in the valley. His car and driver? Check them out No tie, no appointments that require one. What about Tomaso? He remembers Valentin’s words: It’s a case that requires intelligence, skill and imagination, lots of imagination. Black trousers, checks the crease, impeccable, black leather belt with a polished steel buckle. Give your imagination free rein. Tomaso is probably involved in the drug business, the secret services reckon, but it’s not proven. So, it’s recent, otherwise they’d know for sure. He has access to the ideal network of dealers through his drivers and bodyguards. They know the consumers who are loaded and have dealings with the concierges in the big hotels. Woollen cardigan in a slightly darker beige than the shirt. And the factory security guards in another sector of the market. Black lace-up shoes, English leather. If he wants to get involved in drugs, either he goes into business with those who are already there, or he ousts them and takes their place. Initially, he teams up with the Hakims. Then he takes advantage of his connection with Quignard and the local big shots to have them arrested. They take their revenge by blowing up the Oiseau Bleu. A moderate explosion: they’re still in the negotiation phase. It all stacks up. A final touch of the comb to disguise the gashes as best he can. There’s still Bouziane. He fits into this somehow, but I don’t know how. He looks at himself in the mirror. That’ll do. I’d better move fast. It won’t take Tomaso and Quignard more than twenty-four hours to exchange notes and identify me. Keep on thinking. Bouziane isn’t one of the security guard mafia. What emerges from the initial evidence against him is that he’s been a small-time dealer for years, and everyone knows it. So Bouziane works with the Hakims. Tomaso and Quignard both used him, one to bring down the Hakims, the other to finger him as the arsonist. It still holds up. Montoya slips on his black leather jacket. He feels on top form.
Montoya’s having a couscous in a little restaurant in Pondange, sitting at the table next to Amrouche, with whom he’s quickly struck up a conversation. A journalist looking for first-hand accounts of the Daewoo strike. Amrouche could have gone on for ever. Particularly on the subject of the occupation of the offices, in which he claims to have played a leading role. Sentimental, lost, hurt, with a profound hatred of Nourredine. Extraordinary how readily people talk. They need to tell someone about their traumatic experience, and not many people around here seem prepared to listen. But Montoya’s a good listener. Chuffed, Amrouche invites him to drop into his new office to see him whenever he likes. The next conversation, scheduled later that afternoon, will probably be much more difficult.
Rossellini’s singing loudly in the shower. His daily game of tennis, and he’s never played better. He beat one of his usual partners hollow. Robin, who was not in good shape. So perhaps not so surprising. Dresses quickly. The game ahead is likely to be much harder. Pillbox, a little blue pill. Sure of himself. Barely a quarter of an hour left to grab a salad and a coffee at the clubhouse before going back to the office.
Robin’s waiting for him at a table by the window. Rossellini looks him over. Tall, slim, fair-haired, a graduate of ENA, the prestigious École Nationale d’Administration, a state councillor getting on for fifty, and a member of the French stock exchange regulatory body: an excellent track record you could say. But he lacks ambition and is stagnating in the civil service. And he’s a practising Catholic, married, father of six. Unlucky.
Rossellini sits down at the table and places on it an orange cardboard file which he slides towards Robin. A thrill of excitement, then he attacks the tomato and mozzarella salad in front of him. Robin half opens the file, a packet of large-format photos. The first one shows a close-up of his own face wearing a dark wig, his face caked with make-up, all smudged. His mouth is open, his eyes closed, in the throes of orgasm. Retches. How could he look so ugly? And standing over him, the drag queen from the night before, hands on his hips, fucking his arse. Closes the file, ashen. Pours himself a big glass of water, drinks it slowly, his eyes half closed. He looks up at Rossellini, who’s almost finished his tomato and mozzarella salad.
‘You astound me, Philippe, I thought I knew you …’
‘Am I entitled to say the same to you?’
Weak smile. ‘The ENA old boys’ network isn’t what people think. So what’s this all about?’
‘Today or tomorrow, courtesy of the Financial Securities Committee, you’ll be receiving at your office around ten anonymous letters drawing your attention to the fluctuations of Matra share prices at the time its takeover of Thomson was announced.’
‘These fluctuations have not escaped the Financial Securities Committee’s attention. But we can’t see Lagardère becoming involved in this type of operation for the time being.’
‘Lagardère, no. But his partner in the operation, Kim, the Daewoo boss? What was to stop him speculating on Matra shares? Do you know who Kim is?’
Robin finishes eating his warm goat’s cheese on a bed of dandelion leaves. He chews meticulously, down to the last crumb, his gaze darting back and forth from his plate to the hardbound file. Then he puts down his knife and fork, wipes his mouth and gives a long sigh.
‘Very well. I expect the prints and the negatives as soon as the investigation starts.’
‘Of course.’
He rises. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry today. No time for coffee. Sorry I played so badly, I was a bit tired. Rough night, work, worries …’
And he smiles, picks up the orange file as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and walks out, leaving Rossellini to pick up the bill. Classy, you’ve got to hand it to him. And the wild sex, who’d have believed it? Rossellini feels a pang of jealousy. Flashback: Valentin, we’ll cross-check my contacts and yours. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised. This is probably only the beginning. He’s about to get an insight into Kim’s crooked system. He’ll have to probe deep and rummage around. Life is assuming unexpected colours. A ray of sunshine on his back as he extends his legs, let the pressure relax, savour the moment. Blackmaiclass="underline" a new sport that gives him a thrill and a great deal of pleasure.
The door half opens.
‘Mrs Neveu?’
‘Mm …’
A wall of suspicion. Montoya puts his shoulder to the door and shoves, flashing his press pass.