Plans for the day: a makeshift brunch, then a long slow walk to Place Stanislas, arms entwined. ‘This evening I’ll take you to eat frogs’ legs in the country.’
Around eight p.m., the two of them get into the magnificent shiny black Mercedes that a driver had left in front of the Oiseau Bleu that morning, Tomaso at the wheel. He switches on the ignition, starts up the engine, and the car explodes. Demolished, twisted like an iron straw. Tomaso’s body is ripped apart, his head blown off, and his passenger is rushed to hospital by ambulance. She’s badly wounded but may perhaps survive.
All Saints’ Day and the hunting was superb. Quignard, on excellent form, shot like a god. All the guests except the superintendent have left after the evening meal. The two men are in the small lounge of the hunting lodge, reclining in vast leather armchairs before a log fire, nursing glasses of brandy. A day spent walking in the countryside in the cold, their boots heavy with mud. There’s the thrill as they approach their prey, gun in hand or on their shoulder, the shots, the smell of powder, of blood. A copious dinner, the alcohol, the tiredness, the warmth of the fire, moments of bliss.
The superintendent speaks first.
‘My transfer to Nancy is going through. It’ll be official in a week. You’re the first to know.’ Quignard raises his glass to his guest.
‘Congratulations. I’m delighted for you.’ A pause. ‘You’re going to have a big case as soon as you arrive. Do you remember Tomaso? You met him here, on the hunt a couple of weeks ago. My son-in-law, the lawyer Lavaudant, phoned me during dinner to tell me that Tomaso was killed when his car blew up today, outside his joint in Nancy.’
‘He had a nightclub in Nancy, the Oiseau Bleu, didn’t he?’ Quignard nods. ‘A club with a dubious reputation, from what my colleagues say. And where one explosion already took place a few days ago.’
‘True. I met Tomaso in Brussels, where he had some big car hire contracts with the European Commission. I had his security company working in quite a few of the factories down the valley. I found him rather a pleasant man. But my son-in-law gave me a warning when he met Tomaso here, at the Grande Commune hunt. According to him, Tomaso was a rather disreputable character, a former mercenary in the pay of Croatia. His legitimate business was allegedly a front for trafficking stolen cars to Eastern Europe. His death must have been a gangland killing.’
‘Perhaps. The chosen method of operation could lead one to suppose something of that nature. The investigation will establish that.’
‘By the way. I must introduce you to my son-in-law. He has a big legal practice in Nancy. He’s just taken on the defence of the Hakim brothers. And do you know what? About a decade ago, the Hakims were working with the French police in Tangier. According to my son-in-law, they wouldn’t be averse to doing so again.’
‘Interesting. But I’m the new boy in Nancy. I don’t know the ropes, the way I do here. I’m going to start by seeing how things work.’
‘Of course. Well, you know of my son-in-law’s existence, and that he can always act as a go-between if need be.’
‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’ Two days later
Robert Leroy, an elderly man with white hair, very erect, with a great deal of style and dressed in indoor wear, velvet trousers and a silk and wool jacket, pours drinks for his two guests, Dubernard and Meynial. They are in his cosy little smoking room whose wide picture window overlooks the treetops of the Bois de Boulogne and the Auteuil racecourse, invisible in the dark at this hour and time of year.
‘Yesterday, Benoît-Rey called me for a meeting, it sounded urgent, and he suggested that you should also be present. He’ll be coming alone.’
‘We’re here on behalf of the École Polytechnique Alumni Association.’
‘Absolutely. Myself as chairman, you two as members of the board. Benoît-Rey is a graduate of course, and a member of the Association.’
‘Of course.’
‘We were at school at the same time. He graduated in ’71 and I in ’70.’
‘What does he want to discuss?’
‘He hasn’t breathed a word to me.’
‘Certainly not the Thomson privatisation. He’s head of the Alcatel steering group for the bid.’ The three men look at each other.
‘That’s likely to be tricky. You’re at Alcatel, and Robert and I are with Matra …’
‘Should the Association allow itself to get involved in this business?’
‘Benoît-Rey is no joker, and he doesn’t take risks for nothing. If he’s referring a matter to the Association, then I’m sure he has excellent reasons for doing so.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘Let’s wait and see what Benoît-Rey has to say before we discuss it.’
The three men drink in silence. The doorbell rings. A few moments later, Benoît-Rey is shown into the smoking room. The three men rise and Leroy makes the introductions. Complicit smiles all round, everyone knows each other.
‘What would you like to drink?’
A glance at the drinks trolley laden with a variety of bottles.
‘A Suze for a change, thank you.’
They sit down, all eyes on Leroy, who nods his impeccably brushed white head towards Benoît-Rey with an encouraging smile.
‘You asked for a meeting with the board of the Association, and most of us are here. Over to you.’
Benoît-Rey takes out twenty or so sheets of paper folded in half, puts them on the coffee table in front of him, leans forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped, then looks from one to the other.
‘I received these documents in my office at Alcatel from a more or less anonymous source. I’ve carried out a whole battery of checks, as discreetly as possible, which reveaclass="underline" one, that the Daewoo factory in Lorraine, opened two years ago in a European priority development area, has benefited from a large number of subsidies; two, that it has transferred these subsidies to Daewoo Poland, with which it does eighty per cent of its business, by simply falsifying the purchase and sales ledgers; and three, that the super-profits thus earned were paid into personal accounts (he taps the documents sitting on the table in front of him) on arrival in Poland. Here you have their numbers and code names and the amounts and payment dates.’ Silence. They are paying close attention. ‘There’s one more sheet, which bears the names of the account holders. ‘I’ve decided not to show this sheet to anyone.’ A pause. ‘For the time being. Not even to my chairman or my colleagues. We have discussed this case in the Alcatel working party which I head up, and we think that the European Development funding misappropriated for the past two years by Daewoo has been used as bribes to garner support for their Thomson Multimedia bid. Not just any old support. That of the key decision-makers. At the top of the political ladder.’
A break to allow the idea to sink in. The chairman speaks up:
‘Why come and tell the Association about this?’
‘We want the Matra-Daewoo takeover of Thomson to be halted, which will save us having to publish the information we have. The world of politics and the business community have a lot to gain from complying, no need to go into detail. You’re well aware of the disastrous consequences such a scandal would have. For this to be achieved without doing any damage, this information must be placed in the hands of the proper people, through neutral, credible and reliable channels. Channels that everyone knows would not orchestrate the leaks themselves. We’ve thought long and hard, and we think the board of the Association is the best placed — perhaps even the only possible — option.’