‘I’ve already made arrangements with our Geneva correspondent. They’re expecting you.’
Chilled to the bone, Bornand shivers. Think fast. So this is what it’s come to. Business is business. It’s him or me. Time to take advantage of the circumstances to cover my tracks.
‘I’ll send someone next week.’
Before driving back to Paris, Bornand stops for a coffee and brandy at the bar-cum-tobacconist’s in Lamorlaye and reads Paris Turf.
‘Fernandez? Cecchi here.’ Fernandez has recognised him — his master’s voice. ‘I’ve got some news on Chardon. Bornand won’t be disappointed. First of all, he served in the Marines for five years, in Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire, from 1973 to 1979. I’m not sure that’s relevant to our particular business, but just in case … Then he resurfaces on the payroll of the Intelligence Service. You didn’t know that?’
‘No.’ What an arsehole. That record, so bare, of course. I’m losing my touch. ‘You’ll have to do a bit better than this in future. And finally, the cops found around a hundred grams of heroin at his place, Lebanese. He doesn’t seem to be a junkie, so he’s a dealer, small time at any rate. The Crime Squad’s done well, in two days. That’ll give Bornand something to mull over. Remind him that I never do favours for free.’
Cloistered in his Élysée office, Bornand doodles feverishly, drawing acanthus leaves on his notepad. Last night he spent an hour in a tête-à-tête meeting with the President, who as usual didn’t want to hear about arms sales, but noted the fact that the current problem was resolved, and seemed satisfied. He draws another line, rips out the page, crumples it into a ball and bins it. Fernandez, sitting opposite him, waits.
‘So, where are we up to with Tardivel?’
‘Mission accomplished. Raymond, an old friend from Intelligence, and I abducted the little faggot in the middle of the street, not far from here. No one batted an eyelid. As soon as he saw the photo, he caved in. I beat him up a bit, not badly.’ Flashback, squeezing the back of his neck, which yielded, submissive. He smiles. ‘More for pleasure than from necessity, to be totally frank. There won’t be any more talk of the Chardon dossier from that quarter.’
Bornand does not react. Fernandez continues:
‘Chardon was blackmailing him all right, and Tardivel paid up. But that’s not all. I had a call from Cecchi this morning. The investigation is progressing. The cops have established that Chardon is an ex-Marine and was stationed in Gabon, and they found a little stash of Lebanese heroin at his place …’
Bornand’s ears suddenly prick up. Chardon encounters the Djimil brothers while he’s serving in Africa, stays in touch trafficking Lebanese with them, and they use him to take their dossier to Paris. The piece fits into the jigsaw.
‘… Again according to Cecchi, Chardon is in the pay of the Intelligence Service.’
Bornand is gutted. He leans back in his chair, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short convulsive gasps, his face ashen, his hands clasped. For several minutes. Fernandez starts getting worried. Heart attack? Then Bornand’s muscles gradually relax, his breathing returns to normal, he remains motionless for a while longer, before opening his eyes and sitting up.
‘That changes the whole picture. Pay attention to what I’m saying. The Djimils plan the job with Chardon, who informs the Intelligence Service, his paymaster. Intelligence leap at the opportunity and kill two birds with one stone. They give us a completely abridged dossier on Chardon …’
‘That’s how they always protect their informers.’
Bornand bangs his fist on the desk.
‘Shut up, Fernandez. It’s common knowledge that the police department is at war with the Élysée unit. And the unit is Grossouvre, Ménage and myself. So if Intelligence have been informed of this business by Chardon, they’ll have no hesitation in using it to bring me down and cripple the Socialists in the March elections too while they’re at it.’ In a sudden outburst of rage, his voice quavering, he continues: ‘This just proves they’re a bunch of uncontrollable incompetents. Don’t tell me any different.’
‘I haven’t said a word, sir.’
Bornand gets up and turns to the window. The roofs look bare. He takes two deep breaths and tries to regain his composure. A bad day. The pleasure of the horses ruined this morning, being ditched by a friend, and now the whole business has become more complicated, just when he thought he had things under control. He speaks without looking at Fernandez.
‘Who’s behind Chardon? Your old boss Macquart? We have to seize the initiative. I’m going to warn the unit. We’ll see what blocks to put in place, we’ll find a chink. They’re not invulnerable, these Intelligence cops, are they, Fernandez? They have their little vices, their little weaknesses, like you, like everyone else …’
Fernandez pictures Macquart, forthright, massive, behind his desk, a cop to the very marrow. He lives in the countryside under a false name; nobody knows his family; he always checks that he’s not being followed when he leaves the office; all the more upright because he’s not interested in money. The chink … Bornand’s going to come a cropper, and he knows it, and Fernandez rejoices.
‘… Then I’ll go and see the Interior Minister to have a word with him about the way some of his departments operate.’ He turns around. ‘Disbanding the Intelligence Service was in his electoral manifesto in ’81, wasn’t it, unless I am much mistaken?’
‘It was more or less in the manifesto.’
‘Well I think it’s time to remind him.’
‘Sir, if you see the Minister, you know that Cecchi is waiting for his authorisation to reopen the Bois de Boulogne gambling club, which Intelligence is blocking.’
Surprised, Bornand stares at him and thinks for a moment.
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to confuse the two issues.’
‘Cecchi is very useful to you, especially at the moment …’
‘Cecchi seems to me to be rather too compromising an individual under the circumstances. And I’ve got him on-side, in any case. I’ll look into that later, when I have the time and more elbow room.’ A silence. ‘Intelligence must have sent Chardon to a safe house. We’re not likely to see him again.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Back at the police station, a crushing workload has accumulated over the past few days. Noria and Bonfils plod on in silence. Noria looks up from time to time and glances at Bonfils, who doesn’t react, seemingly absorbed in his tasks.
Lunch break. After a dull morning, it’s now a glorious day. Bonfils suggests having a sandwich on a bench out in the sunshine, in the Buttes Chaumont park overlooking the lake. It’s still cold, but it makes a change from the office. He sits there, legs outstretched, silent, half absent. He finishes his sandwich under Noria’s gaze. A clear-cut profile, lips parted, very well defined. His jacket is open. Under his grey polo-neck sweater, she can make out his regular breathing beneath the bulge of his chest. She has a clear image in her mind of the photo and wants to slip her hand under the wool and touch his skin, and let it linger there, with his nipple in the hollow of her palm. It’s fun toying with desire and ambiguity. These are completely new feelings for her. Halt there.
‘You didn’t come in to work yesterday?’ she said.
‘I took a day off. I was feeling down.’
‘I’ve got news of Chardon.’
Bonfils suddenly sits up.
‘You never give up …’
She wants to tell him about running away, the loneliness. But the words simply won’t come out.
‘Should I?’ she queries.
‘To be honest, I don’t know.’
And now she’s aggressive:
‘Well I don’t have a choice.’
He gazes at her for a moment in silence, then says:
‘If you say so. Shoot.’