Dominique Manotti: Affairs of State

Bornand leans towards her, takes her hand, brushes it with his lips, his moustache tickles, and walks off.

A discreet buzzing, the intercom. Bornand goes behind the bar in the corner of the room, and picks up the receiver.

‘François, a phone call for you. I took the risk of disturbing you, it sounds very urgent.’

‘Coming.’

In the lobby, Mado, the mistress of the house, is waiting for him and points to a booth. He picks up the phone.

‘François? Pontault here. I hope you’re enjoying your little party …’

‘You’re not calling me just to say that?’

‘… because it’s not going to last long. Turkey has just announced that a Boeing 747 cargo plane has vanished from its airspace …’

Bornand convulsively clenches the glass he’s holding in his left hand. It smashes, cutting through to the bone at the base of his thumb. Shards of glass, blood on his hand, his shirt, his trousers, the carpet, the walls of the phone booth.

‘… Above Lake Van to be exact, coming in from Malta …’

Bornand frantically tries to staunch the bleeding with his shirt tails.

‘We don’t know what happened yet, but there’s no doubt it’s our plane. François, are you there? Now what do we do?’

The bleeding is more or less under control.

‘Like all true gamblers, we double the stakes. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.’

The telephone rings, early on this particular morning. Bornand surfaces slowly from a heavily drugged sleep and gropes around. A shooting pain in his left hand, a brutal reminder of the evening at Mado’s, the vanished plane, blood spurting everywhere. He picks up the telephone blindly.

‘Morning, François. André Bestégui here. Am I waking you up?’

A long sigh:

‘How did you guess? What do you want at this hour?’

‘To see you. Very soon, and to talk.’

‘About what? At least give me a clue.’

‘About the plane that disappeared yesterday over Turkey.’

‘Later, over lunch, one o’clock at the Carré des Feuillants?’

‘Perfect.’

He replaces the receiver. Bestégui. Bornand had first come across him way back in 1960, during the Algerian War of Independence, at the offices of his import-export company, avenue de la Grande-Armée. He’d been a slightly self-conscious young student in a modern décor of electric blue carpeting and steel furniture, with a painting by Nicolas de Staël on a white wall. There was a stunning receptionist who had no objections to working overtime entertaining important clients. Easy to dazzle, easy to seduce. Bornand had no hesitation in doing both, just in case, and he’d been right to cultivate Bestégui. Nowadays, Bestégui represents the type of French investigative journalism that Bornand most abhors, but it’s always useful to have friends in the right places. Look after Bestégui.

He is awake now, contemplating the orange, red and brown bedspread. Things are looking clearer. Not an accident, an attack. A sudden attack. The plane disappeared yesterday, the press hears about it the same day. In a way, good. He’s going to have to be very effective. Aim: find out who, exactly, was behind the strike.

It’s going to be a busy day. He’s up. In the burgundy and white tiled bathroom, he takes a freezing cold shower, as is customary on important days and grooms himself meticulously with a series of rapid, efficient movements. He has no particular liking for his long, skinny body with protruding rounded shoulders and skin that sags in places. Nor for his heavy, bony face and too pale blue eyes. But he’s as obsessive about his appearance as a professional lothario. He shaves, carefully trims his moustache, splashes on aftershave, styles his hair with gel and applies cologne before getting dressed. It’s the season for closely tailored cashmere and silk suits in every shade of grey. And today he selects a red and grey Hermès tie.

The day begins, as always, with his morning stroll with the President.

It’s a dull day with icy rain falling in huge heavy drops, at times it feels like sleet. They walk through the streets side by side, two silhouettes in woollen coats, scarves and felt hats, heading towards the Élysée. Bornand, in his long, tailored coat and pearl-grey fedora, looks like a 1920s dandy. He leans slightly towards the President, who is stockier. The two old friends chat idly of this and that.

Earlier their paths had crossed several times, one a lawyer, the other his client. No more. Then came 1958 and De Gaulle’s accession to power, and Mitterrand emerged among the French political elite as one of the few opponents of the General who wasn’t a member of the Communist Party. Long conversations between him and Bornand. They found they shared a faith in the Atlantic Alliance, and the same visceral anti-Gaullism, the same anti-Communism mediated by their understanding of the Party. Going further still, they touched on possible shared sympathies during the war, without probing deeper. Bornand developed a profound admiration for Mitterrand’s subtlety and skilful political manoeuvring. He found himself on the fringes of the political power machine, excluded from political circles, ostracised in a way since the end of the war. Condemned to low-level pro-American conspiracies and wheeling and dealing that was lucrative but gave him no status, Bornand saw this budding friendship as his chance to enter the worthy sphere of French politics at last. He offered Mitterrand his services, and that was the beginning of a lasting association during which Bornand played a shadowy role in the President’s entourage, which suits him perfectly, until he became his advisor at the Élysée in 1981, and one of Mitterrand’s chosen companions on his Parisian walks.

‘The latest news from Gabon … President Omar Bongo has put on weight recently …’

A hint of anxiety in the deep voice. The President is joking already. Bornand takes his time.

‘… I heard it from Akihito, his regular tailor. Ten centimetres around the waist in two months.’ A pause. ‘At the Franco-African summit in La Baule, he’ll be wearing long, double-breasted jackets.’

‘In that case, if I were him, I’d change tailor.’

‘So would I. But Akihito has other qualities. He sent five gorgeous blondes to deliver the suits. Whom he had a bit of trouble recruiting, incidentally.’

‘I don’t believe it …’

‘There are rumours about Bongo’s health …’

The President and Bornand stop in front of a luxury couturier’s window. Two young sales assistants observe them from inside the shop, and smile. The President waves at them before resuming his walk.

‘The little brunette’s a stunner.’

Bornand takes note, then takes the plunge:

‘A plane crashed yesterday in Turkey …’ The President gives him a sidelong glance. ‘There’s a rumour in the Parisian press that the plane was carrying French arms to Iran.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to start talking to me about arms deals too, it seems to be all the rage at the moment … and to Iran what’s more! A country under international embargo … If people are stupid enough to go in for that kind of deal, let them pay the price.’ A few steps in silence. ‘You know very well that I’m very much against selling arms to warmongering countries as a matter of principle.’

‘It’s a rule that can be bent a little when it comes to Iraq. Only two days ago the Tehran Times accused us of having delivered to Iraq five Super-Étendard fighters, twenty-four Mirage F1s, and the ultra-modern missiles that are destroying Iranian oil installations. And they weren’t wrong …’

The President quickens his pace.

‘Don’t spoil this beautiful walk in the rain. I don’t want to hear any more talk of arms sales to Iraq.’ He turns to Bornand. ‘And you know it. Talk to the ministers concerned.’