Dominique Manotti: Affairs of State

Bornand writes a summary of the conversation for the President, expurgated of all reference to arms deals, since he doesn’t want to know.

It’s time to meet Bestégui at the restaurant. On the way, a detour via the couturier’s window where the President paused this morning. He buys a vicuña scarf and asks the pretty brunette sales assistant to take it to the Élysée that afternoon. The President will appreciate it.

Extract from Chardon’s intelligence service record:

Chardon, Jean-Claude. Born 1953, in Vincennes, Val-de-Marne, where his father ran a hardware shop. Baccalaureate in literature, 1973. Then joined the marine infantry, served for five years in Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire. Returned in 1978 as a lieutenant. In 1980, he was tried and convicted for living off immoral earnings. He then reinvented himself as a journalist, freelancing for France-Dimanche and Ici Paris under various pseudonyms (the most frequent: Franck Alastair, Teddy Boual, Jean Georges) mainly writing gossip columns about the private lives of showbiz celebrities and the jet set. Numerous known liaisons with call girls and models who act as informers. Since the immoral earnings case in 1980, no further complaints have been lodged against him. He currently resides at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht, Paris 19, in a house which he owns.

A rather brief record. It is highly likely that he must be earning a bit on the side from blackmail. But what the hell’s he doing mixed up in an arms deal? At least it’s a starting point.

Fernandez starts tailing Chardon when he leaves home at 11.47 a.m. Brown corduroy trousers, heavy work boots, khaki parka, unremarkable features and shaggy, lifeless chestnut hair. Fernandez feels good-looking in comparison. Some fifty metres further on, Chardon turns into avenue Mathurin-Moreau, walks down to the metro at Colonel-Fabien, and goes into the Brasserie des Sports, Fernandez hard on his heels. It is a busy bar adjacent to a large restaurant with around forty tables, separated by curtains of green foliage, a buzz of voices, mainly regulars, but at this hour, still plenty of free tables. A waiter recognises Chardon and signals to him that someone is waiting for him at the back of the room. Fernandez follows him from a distance, then pauses and takes cover behind a line of bamboos. Chardon clearly knows the girl who’s waiting for him. It’s Katryn, a call girl whom Bornand regularly uses. Be prudent . Concealed by the plants, Fernandez manages to sit not far from them. They order two beef and carrot casseroles, and half a bottle of Côtes. Fernandez watches. They start a relaxed conversation about this and that. Coffee, bill, they go Dutch. Then they wander over for a chat with the woman owner at the till and go down to the basement via a staircase right next to the bar. After a few minutes Fernandez attempts to follow them. But the owner stops him: the toilets and telephone are at the back of the restaurant to the left. Downstairs there’s only a snooker table, and someone’s using it. Fernandez curses. That has to be where important matters are under discussion. He calls Bornand.

‘Katryn. Holy shit.’ Last night, with the Iranian. Familiarity … Perhaps they already know each other? She lays on the hero number, wheedles information out of him, she’s capable of it. It reaches Chardon … Possibly. But who are the pair of them working for? It’s a lead, Fernandez, don’t lose them .

Fernandez props himself up at the bar and orders a coffee and brandy.

In the basement is a narrow, windowless room with a snooker table in the centre. A suspended copper lamp shines a glaring light on the green baize, plunging everything around into darkness. Chardon sets up the balls in the triangle and removes the frame. He plays first, his head and torso in the circle of light. Too fast, too hard. The triangle shatters, a series of dry clacks, no score. He straightens up, steps back into the shadows and asks:

‘Have you got anything new for me?’

Katryn appears not to hear him. She stalks round the snooker table in her tight black jeans and black polo-neck sweater, her piercing eyes concentrating on the baize. Then she leans over, her black hair reflecting the light, the cue slides smoothly, one precise move and ball number four plops into a corner pocket. She plays again, too quickly, misses. She sighs and straightens up.

‘There was a piece of news, three weeks ago.’

‘You already told me.’

‘Are you playing?’

He plays almost randomly. Nothing.

Katryn begins a kind of dance around the baize. She moves slowly, leans half her body into the light, straightens up, starts walking again. Then makes up her mind, and lines up three shots in a row, talking all the while.

‘Three days ago, Lentin and his buddies came to train her.’

‘Lentin, the film producer?’

‘That’s him. He’s used to this type of operation at Mado’s.’

She leans forward, in silence. Then he continues:

‘Mado thinks that to be a true professional, you need experience. And she’s right about that. She tends to keep the training period down to a minimum in the interests of profitability.’

Chardon plays again, without success. Katryn, irritated, lightly taps the light shade with her cue, and the table oscillates between light and darkness.

‘You’re not concentrating hard enough, this is no game.’

‘So what about Lentin?’

‘This time, the training session degenerated. Lentin had come with two of his friends, novices at this game. I have no idea what happened, perhaps the girl had a romantic idea of the job, or she’d been conned into it from the start. Anyway, she ended up with a broken nose, a couple of broken ribs and her back slashed. Mado had a real job calming her down. She sent her back home to Périgueux.’ She slides a piece of paper folded into four onto the baize. ‘Her name and address. You can get her to tell you her story. I know, it’s risky. But she’s not even fifteen. Lentin will pay up to keep her quiet. And now, how about giving me a proper game of snooker?’

Bestégui is waiting for Bornand at the Carré des Feuillants. As always, Bornand’s running late. A hushed atmosphere. He slowly sips a pure malt whisky and relaxes. Their paths first crossed in 1960, when he wasn’t even twenty, during the Algerian War of Independence. A luxurious, uncluttered office. Him feeling lost, adrift, vulnerable. Bornand had the reputation of being a diabolical boss, a staunch supporter of decolonisation since the days of the Indochina war and with ongoing business relations with the Provisional Government of the Algerian Republic,5 and there were even rumours of arms sales to the National Liberation Front. There was something of the buccaneer about him, and he was elegant and well-spoken, with a penchant for irony. Yes, he was willing to support the French national student union’s demonstrations of solidarity with the Algerian students.

‘It’s high time you took some public initiatives. This war is bleeding our economy and boosting de Gaulle,’ Bornand had said.

He had signed a cheque in support, and gone on the student demonstration in October 1960 with a few of his friends, including François Mitterrand, who received a few blows from the cops’ batons witnessed by journalists. That’s not something you forget when you’re twenty.

Bestégui is still elegant, rich, self-confident and highly informed. Incidentally, how many articles has he penned, including some that have helped build Bornand’s reputation among Paris’s elite? A vast number … and a few dirty tricks too. You don’t get anything for nothing.

Bornand arrives at last and, without apologising, squeezes Bestégui’s arm warmly by way of a vague embrace, like a man in a hurry, then sits down. The head waiter hastens over. Bornand doesn’t open the menu.