Affairs of State (6 page)

The application of the mask is complete.

‘We’re going to be late,’ she says without turning round, glancing at the reflection of the man in black in the corner of the mirror.

‘It doesn’t matter. Take your time.’

‘I don’t feel like going out this evening.’

He looks away. She sighs, rises, slips on ivory silk stockings, a magic moment when her living flesh is transformed into a smooth, perfect shimmering shape. He closes his eyes. Good, very good. Then the long dress, crimson like her lips, fluid over her body, flared at the hem, long sleeves covering her shoulders and a V-neck that plunges to her waist, her breasts unfettered beneath the fabric. Matching high-heeled shoes, the superb arch of her feet, sophisticated balance. She leans over her dressing table, takes a pair of gold earrings from the drawer and puts them on, then a necklace. ‘No need,’ he says and she turns around. He gets up and from his pocket produces a velvet box. He opens it and takes out a round object made of gold. Françoise accepts it, running her finger over the chasing: a geometric design depicting a curled-up panther in unpolished beaten gold. There’s something strange and savage about it.

‘Exquisite. Where does it come from?’

‘From the wilds of the steppes, from the depths of time. The minute I saw it, I wanted it for you. I had it mounted.’ He goes over to her and fastens the necklace around her neck. ‘I could picture you wearing it just like this, with this dress.’

He kisses her hair, moves his lips down to her ear which
he brushes with his moustache, takes the earring between his teeth, tastes the coolness of the metal, and pulls gently. She moves away, smiles at him and winks: ‘Very fragile, this work of art, don’t touch,’ then urges:

‘Let’s stay here this evening, I don’t feel like going out.’

He holds out her coat, envelops her in it, keeps his arms around her and caresses her face with the fur collar.

‘What you feel like is of little importance, my beauty.’

There is something sinister about the parking lot at La Villette at eight o’clock in the morning, in the middle of winter, bathed in the orange glow of the big city. The gleaming wet black tarmac, divided into long strips by granite pavements and marked off with white lines and puny saplings forms a desolate geometric universe a stone’s throw from the construction sites of La Villette. Two cop cars are parked in a corner, blue lights flashing and headlights glaring. The cops, four in uniform, two in plain clothes, are huddled by a row of shrubs. A Caribbean-looking man wearing a woollen hat and scarf and a leather bomber jacket is holding his wolfhound on a leash and pointing to a human form lying under the scrawny bushes.

The two plainclothes cops approach. Noria Ghozali, small and muffled inside a cheap black anorak, stands slightly back, behind Inspector Bonfils, a young trainee she’s working with for the first time. Instinctively, she’s on her guard: a man, her superior, she’s wary.

Bonfils leans over. The body is almost entirely covered by a cream-coloured raincoat. He touches the protruding wrist and hand. Cold, very cold. Gingerly he lifts the raincoat. A woman’s body lying on her stomach, black trousers and sweater, her face turned to one side, almost intact, her eyes closed, the back of her neck split open. All that’s left is a dark brown depression of soft matter, with splinters of greyish bone and matted hair. And under her chin, in her throat, the clean, clear impact of a
bullet. Nothing spectacular, thinks Bonfils, surprisingly unaffected. A used thing lying there as if it had been thrown out a long time ago. He straightens up and turns to the uniformed cops:

‘Death from a gunshot wound. Call the station and the prosecutor.’

Then he takes out his notebook and continues:

‘Now, Mr Saint-André, tell me how you came across the body?’

‘I live on the other side of the ring road.’

‘Where, to be precise?’

‘36 rue Hoche, in Pantin.’

‘Go on.’

‘Every morning, I take my dog for a walk around the parking lot, or along the canal, before leaving for work. I also work on Saturdays, you know.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘Maintenance, at the Galeries Lafayette.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, this morning, it was the parking lot. My dog found the body at around a quarter to eight, or thereabouts.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was running ahead of me and he stopped by the bushes and started growling and tugging at something, the shoe, I think. I thought he’d found a dead animal and went over to fetch him back, and that was it. Then I ran to avenue Jean-Jaurès, called the police from a phone box, and I waited for you at the parking lot entrance.’

‘Did your dog move the body?’

‘No, he didn’t have time. I’m very fond of my dog, so I’m careful about what he eats. No rotting carcases.’

‘Do you only come here in the morning?’

‘Yes. At night, I just take him round the block, I’m tired, you understand …’

‘Did you meet anyone when you were out walking this morning?’

‘No, not today or any other morning. That’s why I come here, because I can let my dog off the lead without bothering anyone. Anywhere else and people always yell at you.’

‘What about yesterday morning?’

‘I went along the canal. Every other day, for a bit of variety.’

After repeating his contact details, Saint-André leaves with his dog.

Ghozali and Bonfils pace up and down side by side to keep warm. He’s broad-shouldered and much taller than her. Wearing a flying jacket that fits snugly over the hips, he looks elegant, laid-back. He takes out a pack of filter-tipped Gauloises from his pocket and offers her a cigarette.

‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’

‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I’m watching you work.’

He exhales the smoke, savouring the first puff. The note of aggression in her voice doesn’t escape him. He shoots her a sidelong glance. Strange little woman, hair drawn back into a severe bun, a round, slightly flat face, not exactly attractive. But there’s a sort of fierceness locked in behind that concrete wall. He continues:

‘You know, this is my first posting, my first day on duty, and my first corpse. You won’t learn much from watching me.’ He pauses for thought. ‘I think I was expecting something more shocking.’

‘Are you disappointed?’

He smiles.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

The Crime Squad arrives. Suits and ties, overcoats, elegant leather shoes. Polite, distant, busy and competent. At once the machine goes into motion. Bonfils makes his report, Ghozali, standing back slightly, listens. The parking lot is surrounded, cordoned off, the area around explored. The forensic team arrives, dressed in white overalls, and sets to work. Noria watches them, fascinated. Bonfils turns to her:

‘Are you coming? We’re going back to the station.’

She blurts out angrily, her face inscrutable:

‘You go back, I’m staying. To watch the real professionals at work.’

Her words hang in the air. A silence.

‘Right. I’ll tell the superintendent that you were needed here.’

Noria watches him walk off, puzzled. Could this man be different from the others?

Photos. Noria picks up a Polaroid of the dead woman’s face. Pathologist. A few simple movements of the body. Initial conclusions. Killed by a bullet through the neck, shot at close range, but not here. The body was dumped here very shortly after the murder, which took place about fifteen hours ago or a little more, hard to say at first glance, given the snow and the drop in temperature. Probably driven here. The lab tests will yield more precise information. No ID on the body. A very big pearl pendant, that might be useful later. No marks, no footprints on the tarmac or in the flower bed, seemingly no witnesses, until the building workers have been questioned. If she’s not reported missing, identification won’t be easy. Noria takes note. An ambulance takes the body away, and the parking lot gradually empties.

At nine a.m., Nicolas Martenot rings the bell of Bornand’s apartment. The door is opened by a manservant wearing a black open-necked shirt, sleeves rolled up, black trousers (
I’ve always wondered what Bornand gets up to with a good-looking guy like that
), who shows him into the drawing room and takes his coat:

‘Monsieur Bornand will be down shortly.’

Martenot goes over to the French window that opens onto a lawn enclosed by ivy-covered railings. On the other side is the Champ-de-Mars, all very peaceful. A glance at the Eiffel Tower, with its dark tangle of girders. He returns to the drawing room. Eighteenth-century blonde wood panelling, Versailles oak parquet floor. On the wall facing the French windows is a magnificent Canaletto, the
Grand Canal in front of the Doge’s Palace
. The painting has great elegance, the gondoliers’ silhouettes leaning over their oars and the froth on the surface of the green lagoon captured in a few brushstrokes. Beside it, three small scenes of Venetian life by Pietro Longhi, hung asymmetrically, look very flat. And, against the wall, a rare piece of furniture, a seat designed by Gaudí, in carved wood, extremely light and elaborate. Martenot gazes at it with a twinge of envy. On the right, a Louis XV marble fireplace. He goes over to the log fire, which is very pleasant in this damp weather. On the mantelpiece is the marble head of a Greek ephebe. He caresses its cheek with the back of his hand, relishing the smooth, cold feel. Opposite it, a terracotta statuette of a Cretan goddess with bulging eyes and a heavy, ankle-length robe, her arms outstretched and her hands clutching bundles of snakes. Above the fireplace hangs a portrait of Dora Maar by Picasso. In front
of it is a vast sofa, two massive square armchairs upholstered in white and an ornate, inlaid low Chinese table standing on a Persian rug in varying hues of red.

He feels as if he has always known this impeccably furnished, unchanging, almost lifeless room. A decor designed as a showcase for Bornand’s wealth and culture. Only the snake goddess lent a rare note of incongruity.

He’d come here for the first time more than twenty years ago with his father, a brilliant defence lawyer who’d made a name for himself after the war defending collaborators. This stocky man with crew-cut hair and a grating voice who resembled a wild boar was Bornand’s close friend. And for Bornand, friendship was sacred. A friend is for life, whatever he does. And Nicolas Martenot inherited this friendship, along with the rest of his legacy. He has attended dozens of gatherings in this drawing room, no grand receptions, but meetings with handpicked associates, personal bonds forming, networks being reinforced, with Bornand at the centre, at the hub of the power machine, elegant and controlling. An instrument of power, and the thrill that goes with it.

Five or six years back, not that long ago and right here in this very room, Bornand had introduced him to his Iranian friends, a few months after the overthrow of the Shah, in the middle of the US Embassy hostage crisis. Two men in their forties, Harvard graduates, in dark suits, equally at ease with the Canaletto and the Picasso. They headed up the international pool of lawyers brought in to support the Iranian government in the countless international disputes resulting from the Islamic revolution. Being part of this pool changed his life, introducing him into the business world operating at planetary level, and making his law firm one of the most prominent in
Paris, with branches in ten countries. It also made him a fully-fledged member of Bornand’s ‘family’, and it was to Bornand he partly owed his wealth.

Martenot turns around, Bornand’s slim figure has just entered the room. He’s sporting a beige polo-neck sweater with leather elbow patches, brown velvet trousers and worn tawny leather moccasins. He walks over to Nicolas, puts his arm around his shoulders and hugs him briefly. There’s a great deal of affection in his gesture. Then he turns to the manservant:

‘Bring us some coffee, Antoine, and then you may leave.’

A fine porcelain tray bearing pastries and chocolates. Relaxed, Bornand pours the coffee then sinks into an armchair.

‘When did you get back from Tehran?’

‘Last night, at around ten.’

‘Well?’

‘It’s not good news.’

‘As I feared.’

‘My trip was timed to coincide with the first missile deliveries. The disappearance of the plane caused mayhem.’ Bornand listens closely but says nothing. ‘I met our friends, separately, then all together. They’re unanimous: there’s nothing left to negotiate. You’ve been aware of their demands in return for freeing the hostages for nearly a year, and still nothing. They’re beginning to doubt that you’re in a position to break the
deadlock
in Paris. Especially as the RPR right-wing opposition party sent an envoy to Tehran, a certain Antonelli, do you know him?’ Bornand nods. ‘I haven’t met him, obviously, but I’ve kept a close eye on him. He’s offering the Iranians better loan repayment conditions and arms deals after the RPR wins the March election, providing they refuse to negotiate with us now.’

‘The Iranians aren’t stupid. They’re only too aware that the Gaullists have always had a special relationship with Iraq, that they negotiated major arms deals and the contract to build Iraq’s nuclear power station. They can’t rely on pre-election promises.’

‘They see the sabotage of the plane as the result of French political infighting …’

‘They’re not wrong.’

‘… and to be honest, they’ve had enough. In a nutshell, they’re giving you two weeks to progress their demands in a visible and public way, otherwise, they’ll break off all contact until the much heralded election of March ’86. And bye-bye hostages.’

‘An ultimatum?’

‘Exactly. Can you meet it?’

Bornand thinks long and hard, his eyes half closed, rubbing the palm of his left hand. A sharp, stimulating pain. Nicolas watches him carefully.

‘Well, François?’

Bornand sits up.

‘Two weeks isn’t long.’

‘But why, why? You know as well as I do that Iraq is on its last legs and will never pay for the arms we supply. Iran is winning the war financially. There’s a rapprochement between Saudi Arabia and Tehran, and the Saudis want a war with no winner and no loser. Why the delay? Not to mention the Americans. Or rather yes, let’s mention them. In Tehran, I met Green. His room was next to mine …’

‘That can’t be a coincidence …’

‘We played poker all night, and he won.’

‘A bad sign.’

‘They’re going to be stepping up their deliveries of arms to Iran, with the blessing of Saudi Arabia and Israel.’

‘But not of the American Congress.’

Martenot smiles.

‘As you can imagine, it didn’t seem to worry Green. And what about us? Why can’t we simply review our policy on Iran? That’s the President’s intention.’

‘I know, I know. But political life is becoming paralysed in the run-up to the election.’

‘A rather feeble explanation, and you know it.’

‘True … Well let’s say there’s a clan-based power system here in France, and a President who is no longer able to arbitrate, to decide, when issues are as complicated as they are in the Middle East …’