Carry out a recce. Hard to recognise the Grands Bureaux of his childhood. The building, of beautiful Lorraine limestone, has been cleaned up and glows golden yellow in the sun. The staff and the guest entrances are both neglected. The two trees either side of the colonnade are no longer pruned, and their branches reach down to the ground encroaching on to the terrace where the big French doors of the boardroom are protected by wooden shutters. An easy way in, sheltered from view. We’ll enter through here. He walks round to the building’s rear façade which used to overlook the yard of the great ironworks, and comes to carefully manicured lawns running down to the river where poplars, trees that grow quickly, have been planted. A new entrance, all in glass, has been added, facing the verdant valley. In the sun-drenched lobby, a charming receptionist behind a counter smiles at him. The names of all the companies with offices in the building are on a huge board. Employment and training on every floor. The parasites that thrive on the social management of unemployment have all found refuge here, thanks to the hospitality of the municipality, which bought the Grands Bureaux. You did the right thing in getting out, kid.
‘Mr Amrouche of the COFEP design consultancy, please?’
‘First floor, door 110.’
He climbs the stairs, follows the long corridor which goes all round the building and on to which all the offices open. He is totally alone. He takes the time to study the walls and ceilings carefully. No indication of any surveillance cameras or alarms. Quite logical really. Guarantee the security of what? Employment? He walks all the way round to the wing where the grand entrance is. A huge monumental staircase flanked by early twentieth-century stained-glass windows celebrating the men of iron and fire in blues and yellows made vivid by the sunlight. The factories have been razed, but the windows have been preserved. Opposite are the padded double doors of the boardroom. Still no one in sight. He hunches over the lock, holding a bunch of master keys, it’s child’s play, and soon finds himself in the large dark room with a pervasively musty smell. He gropes his way forward to the French door, which he opens a crack. Free entry tonight. He turns round. Rows of tables and chairs, baize, ashtrays, crystal chandeliers. At the far end is the chairman’s armchair. Ghosts. The smell grows stronger, haunting, he finds it suffocating, got to get out. Another long corridor, still no living soul, and at last, door 110 which leads to COFEP’s offices.
An internal area furnished as a waiting room or small lounge, containing three armchairs, a water fountain, a coffee machine, and five doors. Quignard’s name is on the door at the end and Amrouche’s is on the door to his left. No visible security system. He knocks and enters.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you? If possible I’d like to continue the enjoyable conversation we began yesterday.’
Without hesitation, Amrouche closes the file spread open in front of him and stands up.
‘It will be a pleasure. Come, we’ll be more comfortable by the coffee machine.’
There’s a danger of bumping into Quignard. Too bad, impossible to refuse, have to be quick. Behind a door, phones ringing and a woman’s voice. His secretary most likely. Amrouche fills two cups with coffee and comes and sits beside Montoya, stretches his leg and back muscles and smiles.
‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘The occupation of the offices. You were the ringleader. Were there many of you occupying?’
‘At first, yes. More than fifty. One or two hours later, I walked around and there were only twenty or so of us at most.’
‘I know that Bouziane and Neveu were there. Did you see them?’
Amrouche fidgets in his armchair, looks away, suddenly assailed by images of arses jerking up and down, clears his throat, hesitates, then answers.
‘Yes, they were playing video games on a computer. Why?’
Montoya takes his time, sips his coffee, not bad by the way. Bouziane, the trail’s getting warm. At last.
‘I’m interested in the drug dealing at Daewoo.’
Relieved, Amrouche laughs.
‘You’re not the only one. And you are utterly mistaken. Bouziane was a small-time dealer and Neveu liked the odd spliff. That’s it and honestly nothing to write an article about.’
A place known as the Haute Chapelle, on the Paris-Nancy road. On the edge of the village, Montoya pulls up in an improvised car park cluttered with a few articulated lorries. Between the car park and the road, stands an isolated, one-storey house, its shutters closed. On the front a sign in big black lettering reads “Au rendez-vous des voyageurs” beside a round blue and red Relais des Routiers plaque. The place is poorly lit, and looks deserted and sinister. Montoya pushes open the door and finds himself in the bar where he is immediately hit by heat, noise and smoke. The room is packed with young and not-so-young men, beer drinkers, jostling and yelling at each other. The owner and his wife are busy behind the bar, and in a corner, at two Formica tables, a small group is eating pork and cabbage hotpot from soup bowls. On the telephone, Valentin had said: ‘Don’t stop at the bar, go into the restaurant.’ At the back to the left, there’s a door masked by a bead curtain, and above it an enamel plaque: Dining room. In the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit room, twenty or so tables with check tablecloths and bunches of plastic flowers. A strapping waitress greets Montoya, who chooses an isolated table in a corner and sits facing the door. Ten or so lone men are eating in silence, probably in need of some peace and quiet before driving through most of the night. So do I, thinks Montoya, I need peace and quiet. Valentin pays amazing attention to detail.
A rare steak, chips, and a carafe of water. It comes quickly — here everyone knows their job — and Montoya starts eating.
The bead curtain rustles, a burst of conversation from the bar, a man comes in. Montoya lifts his head and looks at him. Tall, thin, a khaki parka down to his knees, close-cropped hair, his face furrowed with wrinkles and a pasty complexion. His dull, faded eyes darting everywhere meet Montoya’s gaze. The man comes towards him.
‘Christophe.’
‘Sébastien.’
‘Our mutual friend sent me.’
A subdued, croaking, broken voice, a tormented voice. He’s probably had his trachea crushed, his vocal chords damaged. Fight, accident or punishment? A battered life. Valentin’s probably got him by the balls.
‘Sit down. Pleased to meet you.’
The man orders steak and chips and begins to eat slowly, without saying a word, his eyes always on the lookout.
‘You know what we have to do tonight?’
‘More or less. Bug an office.’
‘I’m in charge of getting in and getting out. You’re in charge of the work inside. And our friend takes care of the rest.’ The man nods while chewing. ‘I’ve carried out a recce, the operation shouldn’t be difficult.’
A wan smile. ‘If you say so …’
The restaurant empties, no point hanging around. Coffee. The man toys with the spoon, long, elegant, bony fingers, never still. Relentless training? The bill. He thrusts his nervous hands into the vast pockets of his parka. Coins deep in the corners of his pockets, notes, an amber rosary? Montoya reckons he’s done a spell in detox, and that it was rough. Maybe in jail. Familiar world. He’s come across hundreds of men of his ilk. Without knowing why, he has a hunch that he’s an excellent professional. As long as someone’s there to lead the way.