Thursday 5 December
Bornand reaches Lamorlaye before seven a.m. and parks near the training track. Before even seeing the horses, he can hear them galloping behind the curtain of trees, a dull, irregular thudding that reverberates deep in his chest, in waves, at regular intervals. He switches off the engine of his Porsche. Windows wound down, eyes closed, he listens with a lump in his throat. No going back now … All that matters is the rhythm of the galloping, in sync with his heartbeat. A foretaste of the race. There’s nothing comparable to the thrill he experiences in the last hundred metres with the riders at full pelt, when he sees his horse put on a final spurt, inch by inch forge into the lead and push its muzzle over the finishing line first. A feeling that he’s bursting inside, an apocalyptic state of bliss. Bornand remembers having cried the first time one of his colts won. Coming second is nothing less than a calamity.
He collects himself, slips a pair of wellington boots over his town trousers, puts on a fur-lined jacket and walks through the woods to the Aigles racetrack. He emerges in a sandy clearing where four horses are walking round in step, ridden by helmeted stable lads. Long strides, necks straining, taut, elongated muscles under their gleaming coats, beautiful to behold. Elegant. All four of them. And so alike they could be siblings. Bornand immediately spots his colt Crystal Palace, a burnished bay, up front, stepping with exquisite grace. He has a precise recollection of every racehorse he’s owned. The colour of their coat, their markings, their style, their idiosyncrasies, and the course taken by every race he’s ever attended, down to the last detail. Four men are talking together at the centre of the clearing: the two jockeys who’ll be riding the horses in the race, the trainer and Karim, his partner at the International Bank of Lebanon for more than ten years. A complete surprise. A nasty surprise: Bornand has a feeling Karim has come to talk business and ruin his day. Don’t give anything away. Handshakes all round.
‘We were waiting for you,’ says the trainer. ‘Let me put you in the picture. The two three-year-olds are running in the fifteen hundred metres. The grey will lead them to the start, gently, at a walk, the chestnut will act as pacesetter at the start of the race.’ To the jockeys: ‘At thirteen hundred metres, give them their head. It’s the last two hundred metres I’m interested in.’
The jockeys replace the stable lads on the two colts, and, following the line of trees, the group heads towards the starting line at the far end of the wide, tree-fringed, slightly undulating turf track. The two men gaze after the receding horses; they disturb two hinds which take fright and bound across the track. Karim’s presence irritates Bornand, it’s like having a stone in one’s shoe.
‘What are you doing here, Karim?’
‘Pretty much the same as you. I’ve got a colt competing.’
‘And you’ve come from Beirut for the training?’
‘I was in Paris. I found out you’d be here this morning, and I grabbed the chance to see you. I wasn’t able to get hold of you on the phone yesterday.’
‘What do you have to talk to me about that’s so urgent?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You recall that the IBL is implicated in the arms delivery to Iran that just ballsed up? The bank’s covering the operation …’
Bornand finds it hard to breathe, feels the blood drain from his face. He concentrates on the horses now on the track. They’re off. Concealed in the dip, you hear them before they come into view, and the pounding of their hooves heralds the magic moment when they reappear. They come charging down, all three flank to flank, their breath sounds as if drawn from deep within them. Bunched together on the flat, they gather speed, draw level with the watching men, the brown bay a head in front of the others. A thrilling moment. At the end of the track, the jockeys straighten up, bring the horses to a halt, and slow down to a walk.
‘Well, the chestnut put on a spurt at the end.’
‘She was pushed to the limit, whereas Crystal managed it easily.’
No one said a word about Karim’s colt which was trailing behind. Not at all ready. A pretext of a race, clearly. Bornand has regained his composure.
Back to the ring, where the horses are walking in step, their heads down, dripping with sweat, their veins bulging, steaming, snorting. The stable lads unsaddle them and rub them down. Bornand borrows a damp cloth to clean out Crystal’s nostrils.
The trainer walks a few paces with the jockeys and the owners.
‘In the race, try and keep Crystal’s blinkers on pretty much until the home straight, I leave that up to your judgement. He’s always been a front runner, but that’ll have to change if we want him to race longer distances. He proved this morning that he can pull it off at the last lap.’
The jockey nods. Turning to Bornand:
‘Crystal Palace is in with a real chance on Sunday.’
‘I won’t be able to watch him race, I’ll be out of the country.’ The jockey nods again. The trainer turns to Bornand:
‘Call me after eight p.m.’
The lads lead the horses back to the stables, the trainer and the jockeys follow them, the woods are deserted. Karim and Bornand are left alone. Bornand picks up where they left off:
‘The bank didn’t invest a cent in the operation, and therefore hasn’t lost anything.’
Karim replies: ‘Which isn’t the case as far as you’re concerned. The Iranians have already cashed your guarantee of a million dollars …’
‘I took the risk. After all, I’m not exactly out on the street yet. And from what I’ve heard, you lost similar sums at the Beirut casino, in the good old days.’
Laughter.
‘Gambling and business aren’t the same thing at all. Losing at cards is still enjoyable. Losing in business … But seriously, you were reckless, you were too greedy, you’d have done better to work through our usual brokers.’
‘Are you lecturing me?’
‘It’s not a question of lecturing, but of risk management. First of all, by cutting them out, you upset the traditional Middle East arms brokers. They’re powerful people, and our best customers. I hope you’re not forgetting that …’
‘I’m not forgetting it …’
‘And besides, if there’s a scandal in France …’
‘There won’t be a scandal. I’ve identified the people behind the attack and the press dossier. They’re also involved in arms deals with Iran. I went to meet them yesterday in their stronghold.’ He falters. ‘In Côte-d’Ivoire. I can ruin them and they can ruin me. So we came to an understanding. They cut it out and everybody minds their own business. The incident is closed.’
‘I beg to disagree. First of all because you may be wrong as to who’s behind the operation, there are a number of interests at stake. And secondly because French political life is a sack of cats nowadays, and the scandal can be re-ignited from just about any quarter. So, to continue. If there’s a scandal, there’ll be an inquiry. And if there’s an inquiry, you’ll be in the eye of the cyclone. A bank like the IBL needs absolute calm and discretion to function properly.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘It must be made impossible to trace things back to the IBL via you. Close all your accounts. Use cash, that’s always the best way to cut all connections. And I’ll erase all trace of the accounts.’
Bornand holds his tongue, looking down at his boots sinking into the thick, sodden turf. The bitter taste of friendship betrayed. The house surrounded by flowers looking down over Beirut, full of fragrances so much warmer than here in France, the beautiful Syrian woman I gave him, and his first horse which I chose for him. Flashback to the stands at the Beirut racecourse, with its walls riddled with machine-gun rounds, the shooting that stops just long enough for the race to take place, Karim winning, the two men embracing at the finishing post … Karim continues: