‘You don’t believe it will happen?’
‘No, of course not. No more than you, I imagine. I remember we often had similar analyses and similar reactions at the Sciences Po.’*
‘Yes, but that was more than ten years ago. I’ve lost my touch perhaps.’
‘Steak tartare. Two, and a chilled Beaujolais.’
‘You find anything on my man?’
‘Yes. More than that even. I’ve found a lot. Don’t trust that one. Be prudent. Don’t touch him unless you’re perfectly sure of your move; if not, he’ll have your hide.’
‘Does it bother you if I take notes?’
‘Not at all, but, as usual, nothing’s come from me. Let’s begin at the beginning. He belongs to an important Iranian family, ultra-rich landowners, friends of the Shah. He studied at the Polytechnic as a foreign student, and passed in 1959. Then he moved on to the US, then back to Iran. From 1970 he worked as an intermediary in negotiations for all the important contracts between France and Iran, in particular Eurodif. It was he who swept the Iranian decision along. I can’t check the exact amount, but I remember even so that that involved several billions’ worth of francs. In January 1979, he left Tehran, around the same time as the Shah, but he himself came to France. There was a welcoming committee of government representatives at the airport, you get the picture? Apparently, he still had a number of contacts back in Iran, where the political struggles are quite complex, since the Central Bank of Iran used him as an expert in the court case that they took out against the Bank of America, in Paris. There the stakes could be counted in billions of dollars. He’s also a consultant to the parliamentary study group on Iran and a French government expert on Iranian questions in European workers groups. At the moment, with the hostage crises, American blackmail, threats of war and all the rest, there’s no need to spell it out … Alongside his more or less official activities — which must be generously rewarded — he’s also an authorized European representative for the Bank of Cyprus and the East, little known here, but it’s the linchpin in all the arms traffic to the Middle East. I leave you to imagine what all that represents. He’s a very powerful man.’
Daquin leaned back in his chair. The pianist attacked the BlueMonk theme. He wasn’t up to it, but it didn’t matter, it made one think of the greats. It was a moment of intense happiness. Here was an adversary, a real one. It was a challenge, it had a sense of danger. This guy, one of these four, I shall hold in the palm of my hand, Daquin thought.
Lenglet looked at him, smiling.
‘Théo, one day you’re going to get your teeth knocked out.’
‘Possibly. If I avoid it, I’ll join you in the Middle East, and you can employ me as a mercenary.’
‘While we’re waiting, shall we go for a bit of hunting tonight?’
‘I’d rather get drunk, but I’ll keep you company all the way.’
11 p.m. Vincennes
A popular bistro on the other side of avenue de Joinville. Stable lads, jockeys, trainers, owners, punters, various conmen, everyone here lived for racing and talked about it. Martens entered, followed by Romero. A murmur. He was already known to the regulars.
He reached the bar and announced: ‘Drinks all round. I’m christening my horse. Rheingold, in the second.’
Martens had found all his old aplomb, but he was already slightly drunk. Romero knew how to direct succeeding events. Hit the sauce as little as possible, make Martens drink the maximum and hold himself in readiness to pick him up. Two hours to keep it up, in the midst of incessant comings and goings, in the perpetually jam-packed bistro. He felt vaguely nauseous, he hadn’t eaten enough.
And then, suddenly, Martens passed out. Emotion, alcohol. Romero caught him in mid-flight. I’ll take him home, he thought. No one seems concerned about him. I’ll carry him as far as the Renault 5. Fresh air, a few smacks. Martens came to, Romero helped him be sick. He went through his pockets, found his car keys and his house keys, then loaded him into the Renault. He was asleep. They were on their way.
* French School of Political Science.
14
1 a.m. Rue Piat
Romero dragged Martens, now asleep, out of the vehicle. No code needed to enter the building, just an entryphone. Elevator to the fifth floor. Open up — it worked. He laid the guy down in the hallway. Switched on the light and made a tour of the apartment. Spacious, well laid-out, kitchen, big dining-room, guest-room, perhaps a bit cold. In the entrance hall was a spiral staircase. Romero went up it, and — amazingly — there was a huge, completely open space, with immense bay windows which gave on to a flowery terrace and, beyond, the whole of Paris from Montmartre to Montparnasse. At this hour the city was dimly lit, it was quite moving. To the right of the staircase was an immense bed and behind it a double bath built into a platform. Along the walls, cupboards and a washbasin. To the left of the staircase, looking across Paris, a desk full of drawers, a coffee-table and sofas. Romero opened several drawers. Files were carefully stored in folders, each bearing a name and number. He leafed through. Unhoped for: all the funny business was there, filed away, just as they taught you to do in the Civil Service.
Romero went downstairs, loaded Martens, who was snoring, on to his back and hoisted him, with difficulty, up to the bedroom. Still snoring. He laid him on the bed, carefully removed his shoes. Then he rushed to the desk, keeping an eye on the sleeping form at the same time. Martens supplied blank, but already stamped, residence permits and work permits to a whole network of distributors: foreign embassies and the French police mainly. No businesses. Nothing on Moreira. At the Turkish embassy there was someone called Turgut Sener who bought a hundred cards a year. Martens sold them at 2,000 francs apiece. At this precise moment, Martens raised himself on his bed and muttered. Romero went swiftly to him — no way must he hesitate — took out his revolver and hit him sharply behind the ear with the grip. Martens fell back in a heap. He took the time to check he wasn’t dead, then rushed back to the desk. Tomorrow Martens would probably be incapable of remembering anything whatsoever.
He examined the file systematically and took notes. Put everything back in its exact place, left as few traces as possible. It was 5 a.m. when Romero left, having gazed one last time on the lights of Paris. Martens was sleeping peacefully. He put out all the lights. Left the keys on the floor in the entrance.
Romero went home. His apartment was … mediocre. Two tiny rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom. Overlooking a yard. There was calm and sun above the salting factory: good morning smells, summer. He took a long shower, shaved, changed his clothes … and found the packet of notes in his trouser pocket. He’d forgotten about them. He put them away carefully in his kitchen drawer and downed an enormous breakfast of bread, eggs, cheese, orange juice and a half-litre of coffee. His boss would be a happy man and he was, frankly, enjoying himself.
1 a.m. Quartier de l’Opéra
A bar, deep armchairs, dimmed lights, a piano, encounters.
In the basement contacts were more intensive. Lenglet hurried downstairs. But Daquin had no desire to follow him. Sunk in an armchair in a quiet corner, he sipped cognacs, with eyes half-closed. He was going to drink till the night ended. Boozing alongside the memory of his mother. From time to time he looked around. Who was there watching him? Perhaps that rather uptight fortyish guy, on a high stool by the bar. Or one of these very delightful adolescents passing to and fro in front of him all night? One of them, in the early hours, came and sat on his knee.