But now Berthet has to admit that the old Chink was right: “What is essential is to ensure peace in the cities of your nation.” In other words, peace would be a studio known only to himself, equipped with:
clean suits
weapons with no serial numbers
a set of false identity papers
medicine in the bathroom cabinet
some cash
cell phones with local numbers
These studios do exist. The closest is in Delft, between Brussels and Amsterdam. Delft — that sure does Berthet a lot of good.
The road might be a possibility. Straight toward Porte de la Chapelle, the highway to Lille. Yeah, right.
Berthet orders a coffee at the counter. Berthet thinks this over. Berthet understands. The Unit wants him dead to eliminate the source of leaks to the Service. The Unit, once the dirty work has been done, wants to keep its hands clean.
Berthet feels very depressed. If The Unit has decided to do away with him like that, it’s because The Unit must think he’s outdated, old, a loser.
Berthet could call Hélène Bastogne, tell her about having been conned. That wouldn’t do much good, just piss off The Unit. Whatever he does now anyway, he’s definitely out of the game.
Berthet wants to take a piss. Berthet goes up to the first floor of the café. To get into the john, you have to put fifty euro centimes into a kind of piggy bank on the door handle.
Clearly, a homeless bum is waiting for Berthet to go in and for Berthet to leave the door open when he comes out. The stinginess of this café, the bum’s stinginess, the stinginess of internal politics, all this irritates Berthet.
In the world as it was before, you didn’t pay to piss. To accept this is more proof that a submission chip has indeed been implanted in all people born after the oil crisis.
Berthet looks for exact change. Next to him, Berthet feels the bum’s need to piss as pressing as his own. This irritates Berthet even more.
Then Berthet blows his fuse.
Berthet takes out his Glock and breaks the bum’s nose with the butt. Then Berthet finally manages to find the right coin, Berthet goes into the john, Berthet drags the body of the bum along with him, quite easily given the drug-addicted thinness of this economically deprived individual, and once the door is closed, Berthet crushes the bum’s face with a stomp of the heel of his Church’s shoe, thinking about:
those Unit shits
those Service shits
that shit Sun Tzu
that grouse with foie gras he had to skip
that internal politics crap
The bum is pretty quickly disfigured and dead. In place of his face there are shards of bone, bits of rotten teeth, torn flesh, and even an eye popped out of its socket looking disapprovingly at Berthet.
Berthet takes his leak, Berthet farts, and Berthet wonders what got into him.
Berthet washes his hands, Berthet splashes water on his face, Berthet wipes off his Church’s and the bottoms of his trousers.
Berthet remembers, then, that he forgot to take his Haldol when he was having lunch at Chez Michel. And this is the upshot.
Berthet swallows two pink gel tablets and is about to step out, when one of his two cell phones vibrates.
6
“Hello, my friend!”
Lover #2 immediately recognizes the Voice at the other end of the cell phone. Lover #2 loves this Voice. A top bureaucrat’s phrasing, a cabinet minister’s unction with media appeal to boot because the Voice publishes two essays a year on globalization, always the same ones, and because the Voice is invited everywhere to receive all the journalists’ compliments and bows. The Voice is one of the ten or twelve most powerful Voices in France.
“Hello, sir.”
Lover #2 tries to stay cool, relaxed. To deal equal to equal with the Voice. Lover #2 is the editor-in-chief of a major daily, after all.
“I have a favor to ask you, my dear friend...”
Lover #2 puffs out his chest. Lover #2 forgets that he is stark naked on Hélène Bastogne’s bed, and that his fingers smell of Hélène Bastogne. As for Hélène Bastogne, she’s taking a shower so long it might be insulting if Lover #2 didn’t have other things on his mind.
“Go on, sir.”
“You have a journalist on your paper called Hélène Bastogne, I believe?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Lover #2 restrains himself from saying, That’s funny, what a coincidence, I just fucked her, rather well if I must say so myself, and now we’re going for a drink near Canal Saint-Martin. How about joining us? We’ll make it a threesome. These thirty-year-olds do enjoy a good fuck, you know. Probably because of their poors power in relation to the older generation.
But Lover #2 doesn’t know the Voice intimately enough. That’s too bad. One day.
“Mademoiselle Bastogne has gathered some rather sensitive information, I believe, from an agent belonging to our services, hasn’t she?”
Uh oh. Uh oh. Careful. Careful, thinks Lover #2.
“True. And we’re about to bring it out soon. But if this is a problem to you, sir, I can postpone it.”
“Out of the question, my dear friend, it’s not our style to control the press. On the contrary, I’m going to tell you something in confidence: We ourselves encouraged this agent to talk. It has to do with internal stability, it’s very complicated, one day I’ll tell you about it. We are in favor of transparency, my dear friend. Only here’s the thing: This agent still has things to tell Mademoiselle Bastogne, some very interesting things.”
“He can just come by the office again tomorrow.”
“Now here’s the problem. A rival service has spotted him in your offices. We are in a preelection period. He’s risking his career and even his life if he visits you again. Your journalist does live in the 10th, right? Tell her to go home. Our man is in the area. He will meet her at her place. He will feel more secure there. Do this quickly, my dear friend. Let’s say within the hour. It’s urgent. We’ll send our man to a quiet place right after.”
“For security purposes, I would also like to be present at the interview,” says Lover #2. “You never know.”
“Your ethics and your courage are to your credit, my dear friend, I was going to suggest the same thing. But our agent is very nervous. The idea should seem to come from Mademoiselle Bastogne, that would make him feel secure. I’m counting on you, my dear friend, and I won’t forget to thank you after the elections.”
The Voice hangs up. Lover #2 rises, walks over to the bedroom window. Lover #2 looks down at Cavaillé-Coll park. Kids are playing before night comes, which won’t be long now. Lover #2 scratches his balls, Lover #2 looks toward the façade of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul’s. Oh, not a great example of a faux Greek temple.
Lover #2 scratches his ass. Lover #2 has the feeling they’ve got him just where they want him. But come on, that’s paranoid, too much coke. Change dealers, must think about changing dealers.
Hey, Lover #2 says to himself, the place where my dealer wants me to meet him is not very far away, as a matter of fact. Near Saint-Louis Hospital. I’ll go as soon as everything is settled with this Berthet. I’ll have a blast with the Bastogne girl. I’ll order bo bun from the Asian restaurant on avenue Richerand. It’s the best bo bun in Paris. Coke, bo bum, and sex. If you’re going to spend an evening in this lousy area, you might as well make it a good one.
Behind him, the shower has stopped. The bitch has finally finished washing her ass.
Without turning around, Lover #2 senses the damp presence of Hélène Bastogne. Lover #2’s cock swells a little. This isn’t the right time, even if at a good fifty-plus years it’s always heartening to see that the machine can react in a split second.