Dominique Manotti: Lorraine Connection

‘I’ve got the documents. Do you still have the money?’

Smile. ‘Of course. What would I spend it on here?’ He takes the plane tickets out of his pocket. ‘Let’s go. The next plane for Paris takes off in less than an hour. I was worried you’d miss it.’ 1 November

All Saints’ Day and a public holiday. Alcatel’s head office is silent, empty. Just an occasional security guard doing the rounds. In Valentin’s little office on the top floor the soundproofed door is carefully locked, there’s quite a crush. Valentin has placed photocopies of the documents Montoya brought back the day before on the table. Fayolle, personal lawyer and right-hand man of the big boss of Alcatel, Rossellini and Benoît-Rey, all three casually dressed in fine wool sweaters and corduroy jackets, as if to emphasise the completely informal nature of the meeting, are reading the documents avidly, page by page. Suppressed sighs and sidelong glances. Valentin makes coffee, and Montoya remains on his feet to one side, leaning against the desk with a vacant air.

Rossellini and Benoît-Rey look up at the same time. Their sentiments are the same: it’s a knockout victory. A job well done. But no one speaks, waiting to hear what Fayolle has to say. He takes his time, reading and rereading the last page before opening his mouth, his face a stiff mask.

‘We have enough to bring down the government, which was not our original intention. Everyone would lose out massively.’ He pushes the documents back to the centre of the table. ‘This is so big, I don’t see how we could use it.’

Valentin serves coffee. Fayolle drinks his standing in front of the window, absorbed in contemplation of the Eiffel Tower, the top of which is lost in the haze of an autumn mist. Benoît-Rey clenches his teeth in exasperation. What did the big boss expect, sending us off to rummage around in dustbins? So we could bring him a bunch of dead flowers? All that for nothing? As for this Fayolle, what credibility does he have? Rossellini, elbows on the table, clutching his head, repeats to himself: Fayolle’s going to back down. If he backs down, what happens to me? How do we force him to act? Anonymous phone call to the Prime Minister? No. Leaks to the press … Names are already coming to mind … Fayolle puts down his empty cup and turns round.

‘What do you think, Valentin?’

Valentin gathers up the files, makes a neat pile of them, then folds and rests his hands on the top.

‘I share your point of view, dear sir. We can’t make any public use whatsoever of this information. The situation would run out of control. But nor can we pretend this file doesn’t exist and simply drop the matter. If Daewoo takes over Thomson Multimedia we now know for certain that with its management methods the company will go belly up, and probably very soon. How do you know that this list of backhanders won’t surface again then? If we were able to dig it up, others can do the same. On the other hand, if Daewoo loses the bid, nobody will have the least interest in it any more and a scandal will have been averted.’

Montoya turns back to the coffee machine with a smile. Alcatel, the white knight, to the rescue of the Republic. Great cops and the Jesuits definitely have a number of things in common. He pours himself another cup.

Sitting down again, Benoît-Rey carefully weighs his words.

‘Let’s take things one at a time. The choice of Daewoo was the result of bribery, we have the documents to prove it. Although there’s no point in us making this public, those who are implicated have a lot more to lose than we do.’ Fayolle makes a gesture. ‘Or at least, they’ll think they do. We make it discreetly known that we have these papers, the decision is quashed. On that point, I share the view that Valentin has held from the start, it doesn’t matter how. And all these documents we have here disappear.’

‘The whole problem, Pierre, rests on the word “discreetly”. It is out of question for us to go and see the senior politicians to tell them, and I don’t see who’d agree to act as our spokesperson. These days, as in the past, they shoot the messenger.’

Valentin speaks up again.

‘We shouldn’t look for an individual, but rather an influential association or body that has moral authority, with contacts in each camp. Haven’t you got someone suitable among your alumni networks? What else is the old school tie for?’

‘Yes, we do. The École Polytechnique Engineers association which I belong to.’

Silence. Everyone thinking. Then Fayolle, slightly more relaxed:

‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Pierre. In any case, I can’t come up with anything better. Among the association’s staff, Dubernard is very involved with Matra; Meynial with Alcatel, in the nuclear sector; and the chairman, Leroy, is on the Matra supervisory board. The Association’s clout will probably shield them from any potential ill feeling. But will they agree to do it?’

‘Shall I set up a meeting?’

Fayolle nods and ends up smiling.

‘I feel as though I’m bungee jumping. And that’s not something I usually do.’

‘You get used to it,’ mutters Rossellini. ‘Worse still, you come to enjoy it.’

Montoya is left alone with Valentin, who collects up the dirty coffee cups.

‘You led them exactly where you wanted them to go. Did you know about this Association?’

‘Of course. In a slightly old company like ours, which has its own ways of working, if you want to be effective, you have to know where the real power networks are. The Association is one of them, and its members are at the helm of half the French economy. As the esprit de corps isn’t as strong within their organisation as it is among us cops … Their Association won’t be able to resist the pleasure of flexing its muscle, and people will listen, believe you me.’

‘Bravo.’

‘Compliments are always nice when they come from a connoisseur.’ Valentin brings out a bottle of brandy. ‘I believe you’re a brandy drinker? Let’s drink to our past and future collaboration.’

For Montoya, the brandy has the flavour of a journey’s end.

All Saints’ Day and a well-earned rest. Yesterday, the Warsaw contact telephoned. Mission accomplished. Tomaso dreams of acquiring holdings in Quignard’s businesses, big international deals that are being struck at this very moment. I don’t see how he can say no. Even if I don’t know exactly what they’re about yet, I’m not going to be short of cash to invest if I can take over the Hakim brothers’ business. Which shouldn’t be too difficult Quignard’s major operations can launder the money and provide a seal of respectability. Respectability. Perhaps it’ll be my turn to buy a hunt. That would be funny, ending up as a patriarch, a landowner. The builders start work on the Oiseau Bleu tomorrow. Make the place a bit less steamy while we’re at it? Kristina wont agree. Talk to her about it, but not today. Today’s a holiday. He’s taken the morning in bed with Kristina, his Croatian mistress, luxuriant flesh and feisty attitude, even in love. His hands and his mind wander. It’s more than just physical attraction, a genuine affection for a woman who’s lived on the edge. When he met her, she was wearing fatigues, the black beret of the Croatian militia, a Kalashnikov slung over her shoulder. To avenge her father killed by the Serbs, she said. He hadn’t delved any further. Everyone has their own reasons for fighting. It seemed to him as if she enjoyed it. Just like him. My wife. A desire to get married. A church wedding. After all, you’re a Catholic, like me. In white. She laughs. ‘Our customers wouldn’t like it.’Fuck the lot of them.

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.’