Dominique Manotti: Lorraine Connection

He clears customs without any difficulty. Montoya’s waiting for him at the exit. Handshake. Rossellini swings between a sense of complicity with a fellow fighter, and aloof disdain.

A taxi drops them in the midst of the lawns and copses. The weather is fine and cool — ‘Just perfect for a little stroll,’ says Montoya with a half-smile — and he leads Rossellini through the gardens to the edge of the empty plaza in front of Daewoo’s head office. Montoya telephones.

‘Park hasn’t arrived yet. He shouldn’t be long. We’ll wait for him under this pine tree. Once he’s inside the building, we’ll sneak in behind him.’

Rossellini feels an irrepressible urge to laugh again. He chuckles. Is this a game? He decides to be patient.

‘You’re a walking safe, and Park may not be the only person who knows it. We’re dealing with a bunch of crooks about whom we know nothing, except that they’re already involved in more than one murder. Valentin asked me to bring you back alive, if possible, so I’m trying to minimise the risks. This empty plaza surrounded by trees looks to me like the perfect place to practise shooting at a moving target. OK? You might find it amusing, but you’ll do as I say, and don’t lose control.’

Rossellini, shaken, takes his pillbox out of his pocket and swallows a small blue tablet.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ snaps Montoya.

Just then, he catches sight of Park at the entrance to the plaza, muffled in his coat. He’s alone, walking briskly, swinging a black leather briefcase at arm’s length. Montoya grabs Rossellini by the shoulder.

‘There he is. Don’t move.’

The words are barely out of his mouth when two sharp shots ring out in quick succession. The figure stumbles, as if pushed from behind, spreads his arms, jerks and crumples to the ground, his arms outspread, without a sound. Indubitably dead. Montoya is still squeezing Rossellini’s shoulder, which he can feel shaking, while keeping an eye all around them. The shots must have been fired from the other side of the avenue. He locates a clump of trees, the killer probably has a gun with a telescopic sight trained on the path across the plaza to the main door of the building. It must have a super-efficient firing mechanism. He just catches a glimpse of two men walking calmly away from the trees, across the gardens.

‘We’re not the target. The killers probably don’t even know we’re here.’ He turns to Rossellini for a rapid check. He’s pale, after all it’s the first time he’s witnessed a murder at close hand, but still calm. He’s reliable and bearing up better than expected. ‘Now you’re going to leave the gardens without hurrying, and stay out of sight until you reach the avenue. Take a taxi or a bus, go back to the airport and wait for me there. See you at the cafe in departures. No pills before I get back. Go.’

Rossellini disappears without a word. As yet nobody on the plaza, or near the prone form. Montoya runs over to the body and turns it on to its back. Mind the spreading pool of blood. He searches Park’s inside pockets and his jacket and coat pockets. Nothing. The briefcase is locked. Forces the lock: blank paper, two pens, a packet of Kleenex. He straightens up and runs to the entrance of the Daewoo building, calling for help and waving his arms around. In reception, a stunning young blonde is standing on tiptoe behind the desk, trying to see what’s going on outside and discover the reason for this unusual commotion without leaving her post. Montoya talks very fast, in rapid, stilted English.

‘A man shot, there, on the plaza, murder, two bullets in the back. A Korean, one of your employees, call the police, your manager. Mr Park’s office?’

The receptionist, overwhelmed, has her hand on the telephone: ‘Office 23, sixth floor.’ Montoya rushes to the lift. But he’s not there yet. The lift door closes. A helpless shrug then she gets busy raising the alarm throughout the building.

Montoya takes the lift up to the sixth floor where the executive offices are. By the time he steps out, news of the murder of ‘one of us’ on the plaza is beginning to spread and people are pouring out of the offices. He takes refuge in the toilets and emerges when he reckons the coast is clear. He finds door 23, picks the lock and goes inside. Luckily the office is small and uncluttered. Not exactly overworked in Warsaw, Park. Move fast. Go for the most obvious: two files on the desk, not what I’m looking for. Three drawers, not locked, magazines, an English novel, a bottle of Scotch. A metal filing cabinet, ten or so files that look more like stage props than work tools, like the empty briefcase earlier. Still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Perhaps I’d better stop and think instead of being quite so busy. Montoya sits at the desk in Park’s chair and breathes deeply. Calm. It all comes back to the same question: Do the lists exist? Doubt enters in: It’s too good to be true. Apparently Quignard believed it, because he had Park killed. And he knows the outfit well. Supposing they do exist. Valentin told us he’d realised the seriousness of his situation, he was scared and he really wanted to negotiate with us so he could disappear. He turned up for our appointment. So either he must have had the lists on him or else they’re here. Second point: if he was really scared, to the point of agreeing to do business with us, it was because here he was working alone. Blackmailing Quignard was his own idea. He stole the lists. He knows the Koreans here are crooks and he’s afraid of them, as afraid as he is of Quignard. He’s afraid of everyone. So the lists have to be hidden. In an unusual place, on his person or here. I didn’t search him thoroughly enough, but it’s too late for that now. Either I find them at once or I tear the office apart. Montoya stands up again, looks on and under the furniture, checks the backs of the drawers, inspects the desk top, still nothing. The white moulded plastic desk chair has a round, padded cushion with a brown cover. He picks up the cushion. Nothing. Feels it. The cover has a zip. Opens it. Inside the cover, a plastic sleeve as brown as the cushion cover, and inside that, twenty or so sheets of paper, which he flicks through very quickly. The first few are summaries, purchases, sales and delivery orders, Pondange-Warsaw, no time to read them, this must be the scheme mentioned in the phone conversation between Park and Quignard. On the next sheets, names of banks, account numbers and code numbers, a few dates and sums paid in. Finally, on the very last sheet, the names of the numbered account holders. A few names leap out — all senior French state figures. This is dynamite.

Montoya closes the file straight away. If anyone asks me, I’ve never seen that piece of paper, I’ve not read anything. Runs his fingertips over the brown sleeve. In the eye of the storm. Real life. And a hint of curiosity: How is Valentin going to get rid of a bombshell like this? What if it’s too sensational to be of any use? Not my problem . He folds the sleeve lengthways, slips it into the innermost pocket of his coat, which he buttons up, suddenly calm, pleased and sure of himself. I’ve won, this affair is over. Affair … Rolande. Free. Gone. All I have of her is the delightful memory of her smooth wet skin, her wacky vamp look, and the ambiguous gentleness of her fluttering hands. What bliss. He puts the cushion back on the chair and leaves the office without hurrying. Corridor, lift, basement, find the back exit at the rear of the building, still no one around, this is easy.

Rossellini’s waiting for him at the airport bar, where he’s downing coffee after coffee, leafing through the English language newspapers. Montoya sits down at his table, stretches out his legs, and smiles.