Dominique Manotti - Lorraine Connection

‘I know we have little in common, you and I. But you’re the person I want to convince, Rossellini, you most of all, because you’re a key player. Part of our affair, probably the most important part, will be played out in the Finance Ministry and the surrounding milieus, as is often the case in this country, and that is your territory.’ Rossellini drinks his tea without a glance at Valentin. ‘I know you’re reluctant and I well understand why. You think the game’s over, and that you urgently need to rethink your future career. Let’s look at things from a different angle. Whether you worry about your future now or in two months’ time doesn’t make much difference. In any case, it’ll take you ten years to climb back to the top. Ten years is a long time. On the other hand, if we win, I disappear, no one likes the security service and dirty tricks, you get all the credit for the success, and the future’s yours. In a nutshell, you’ve got a lot to gain, and absolutely nothing to lose that hasn’t already been lost.’

Rossellini pours himself another cup of tea and adds another slice of lemon with slow, deliberate movements. He takes a sip, leans back in his chair and looks at Valentin for the first time.

‘I came to more or less the same conclusions last night. Go on.’

‘I’ve got a few contacts among Lagardère’s sworn enemies. I won’t go into detail, and I’m going to get my hands on their files — dropped charges, current proceedings, various libel cases. Pierre and I are going to reactivate all that. I expect you to arrange for Lagardère to receive a visit from the tax inspectors …’

‘I can do that if you give me some ammunition. But a tax inspection is a drop in the ocean given what’s at stake.’

‘I know that. We’ll carry out a campaign of harassment. But that’s not the main thing. I want you to launch a stock market investigation into Matra share prices. Look for signs of insider dealing. On the radio this morning they announced a twenty-five per cent rise in the share price on opening.’

A cop. No more than a cop. Hopelessly thick. I should have known. Shit. Rossellini is very terse.

‘I fear you’re barking up the wrong tree, Valentin. Lagardère certainly wouldn’t compromise the whole deal — a mega industrial deal — by doing something so stupid. It’s not Matra’s style.’

‘Lagardère no, but Kim, Daewoo’s CEO, would. He’s the one who booked Fouquet’s several days in advance. Would he miss out on an opportunity like this to make a quick buck, almost risk free? With his crooked ways? The evidence suggests not.’ He stresses the word “evidence”. ‘He speculated, and he probably used the new stream of funds to grease the palms of his backers while he was at it. The stock market regulator will find out, and we’ll have the key to Kim’s sleaze operation.’

Rossellini has closed his eyes and is massaging his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. After all, seen in this light, it might not be impossible. He sits up.

‘Let’s say that you’ve convinced me, and let’s set things in motion without wasting any time. But don’t overestimate my contacts.’

‘We’ll cross-check my contacts and yours. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised. And besides, you have no option, Rossellini, and neither do we. Make sure you do a good job.’

The solitary housing estate rises up in the middle of the Lorraine plateau, just above Pondange and its valley. It dominates the vast stretch of land which is bald on one side and has verdant woodland on the other. Half-empty car parks are dotted around the estate, a construction dating back to the last heyday of the iron and steel industry. It is well-maintained, recently renovated and the majority of the residents are unemployed. This morning, there’s a biting wind and the few men and women who are leaving for work, dropping the kids off to school on the way, hurry towards their cars.

Two men in their thirties, athletic looking, with short hair, square jaws and inscrutable expressions, wearing work boots, jeans and leather jackets, are hanging around the building. Étienne Neveu’s wife, a well-built woman with flaxen hair, is late. At last she emerges from block C, chivvying along two little girls, half dragging, half carrying them towards a battered Clio. She piles them on to the back seat, turns on the ignition, yanks the car into gear and drives off. The two men walk up to the door of block C, glance around, nobody in the lobby, too early, too cold for the young loafers. They go in, take the lift, third floor, the door on the left. One of them rings the bell. Silence. He rings again. Reluctant footsteps, and a sleepy voice enquires:

‘What is it?’

‘Étienne Neveu?

‘Yes …’

The man takes out a card wallet and presents it open in front of the spy hole, the colours of the French flag. Police. Étienne opens the door. He’s in his pyjamas, barefoot, his hair dishevelled. He lets the two men in and they close the door softly behind them.

‘Police. You are Étienne Neveu, you work at Daewoo Pondange, you were present yesterday during the occupation of the factory and at the time of the fire, and that night you claimed in public that you saw the arsonists. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He ushers them in. ‘Come in, sit down.’

‘No, we’re in rather a hurry. We want you to come with us to Pondange police station to make a statement.’

‘Right away?’

‘Right away. You understand that it is crucial for our investigation. We’ll drive you there and bring you back home as soon as we’ve finished. You can expect it to take a couple of hours.’

Two hours … There goes his lie-in to recover from the excitement of the day before. It’s no joke, a fire. Sleep first, then slob around in my pyjamas in front of the TV, no wife and no kids. With a beer. Maybe even get a bit pissed, and then another snooze, so as to be on form for dinner. I should have kept my mouth shut yesterday, fat lot of good it’s going to do me …

‘Get dressed, Mr Neveu, we’re waiting.’

To go to the police station, you’ve got to look smart, you don’t want to find yourself in a position of inferiority. You never know, they might take advantage, the bastards. So, a clean pair of black jeans, Italian leather moccasins, a nice beige sweater and the brown parka. Satisfied glance in the mirror, and a little idea begins to form. Pondange, Aisha, why not? He’s beginning to feel more cheerful …

The three men go downstairs together without exchanging a word. They meet no one in the lift. In the car park, the trio makes its way towards a grey Peugeot 206 where a man is sitting behind the wheel reading the Républicain Lorrain. He folds away the paper as they come towards the car. Perfectly synchronised, one of the men takes Étienne by the elbow and steers him towards the right rear door which he holds open for him, while the other opens the rear left door, gets in and sits down. Étienne leans forward to climb into the car, the man behind gives him a violent shove, and Étienne topples head first on to the back seat. The guy sitting inside the car guides his fall and pushes a wad soaked in chloroform under his nose, pressing down hard on his injured neck. His partner finishes bundling Étienne into the car, wedges him firmly in, barely a couple of convulsive jerks and the body is inert. Then he also gets in, slamming the door shut. The driver switches on the ignition, the three men exchange glances, the car slowly pulls away and moves towards the second car park which overlooks the Pondange valley. They drive between the edge of the woodland and a white van parked there, completely blocking the residents’ view. The two passengers throw their police ID cards on to the front seat, get out of the Peugeot, grab Étienne’s legs, pull him out of the car, load him on to one of their backs and vanish quickly into the trees.