Affairs of State (10 page)

‘Excellent.’ Mado gets up, and so does Bornand. ‘Do you want to try out Katryn’s replacement? A novice. You can give her some of your sound advice and tell me what you think. And then have dinner with us.’

‘I’m greatly honoured, Mado.’ He takes her hand, holds onto it for a moment, leans forward and brushes it with his moustache. She smiles at him. ‘But I can’t stay. I’m on duty tonight at the Élysée.’

Late afternoon, glorious cool weather over Halat airfield on the road from Beirut to Tripoli. Airfield is too grand a description, more of an air strip, at most two long, broad sections of motorway converted to landing strips, a perfunctory control tower, planes of varying sizes dotted around, hangars sprouting everywhere on the surrounding plain. The hub of all trafficking, controlled by the Christian militia. A pick-up truck laden with sacks rattles its way to Camoc’s hangar whose sliding door is wide open, and pulls up inside. The driver and his assistant start unloading the bundles, food products destined for the Lebanese community in Sierra Leone, scheduled to leave tomorrow along with a cargo of arms sent by Camoc. In the midst of the sacks is Moricet. At a signal from the driver, he darts into the hangar and slips behind a stack of wooden pallets. The pick-up drives off. Moricet, lying on his back on the ground, relaxes.
All you need to do is wait, doze off a little. It’s going to be a long night
.

Comings and goings inside the hangar, the sacks are brought
over to the plane scheduled to take off tomorrow morning. It’s true that it’s easier to keep a plane under surveillance than a hangar, and if the Syrians were telling the truth, there’s a fair quantity of heroin in among the chickpeas. Gradually, the activity subsides, both inside and outside the hangar, then grinds to a complete halt. Moricet moves over to the door. Beneath his jacket he’s wearing a belt full of tools, and in a holster under his arm, his revolver. He breaks open the very rudimentary lock. Half opens the door, looks and listens. It’s a clear night, not many lights. Jeeps drive round at regular intervals, but mainly on the runways.

They seem to drive past every half-hour or so. More than enough time.

He has to sprint about a hundred metres across open ground to get to Camoc’s offices. He checks his equipment, his gun, emerges from the hangar closing the door behind him, and breaks into a run, doubled over just in case, or out of habit. An almost flat roof, with one pitched side. He jumps, steadies himself, regains his balance, climbs, lies flat. The riskiest part is over. Now to the tools. Using his shears, he makes a hole in the corrugated iron roof, cuts out a square, clears away the insulation materials, slides out the false ceiling, jumps down into the building and replaces the metal square. The alarm is only wired to the doors and windows. He takes a map and an electric torch out of his pocket, gets his bearings and goes straight to the boss’s office. All along one wall are metal lockers filled with files. The locks are no problem. It’s midnight, and Moricet gets down to work.

Moricet skims through the various customer files, classified in alphabetical order. He quickly finds confirmation of what the Syrians had told him: large numbers of French and Israeli weapons, fixed up and modified for the Christian militia in Lebanon, the Horn of Africa, with Francophone sub-Saharan Africa the biggest customer, and of course, as it happens, the most interesting. At the centre of the network is the Franco-Lebanese Djimil family. Seven brothers, Shia Muslims, who emigrated in the early 1950s to Côte-d’Ivoire because the Christians controlled all the power in Lebanon. They soon made their fortune. One of them, living in Sierra Leone, organises diamond smuggling, controls virtually half of the country’s output, and is now one of the richest men in Africa. A devout Muslim, he finances the works of the entire Shia community in sub-Saharan Africa and maintains close relations with the ayatollahs and the Iranian regime. Another brother, Mohamed Djimil, who stayed in Côte-d’Ivoire, specialises in importing arms. And perhaps also heroin, which often goes hand in hand, but of that, of course, there is no trace in Camoc’s correspondence. Huge arms shipments, one average-sized cargo plane a week. Nothing on the ultimate destination, and Camoc only knows Djimil, the middle man. But Moricet has a clear picture of the chain: French mercenaries, African guerrillas, presidential bodyguards and, further afield, South Africa, still under embargo. And of course, Francophone Africa means that there’s
probably an RPR connection. Besides, it’s public knowledge that the Djimil brothers in Côte-d’Ivoire regularly finance the RPR’s electoral campaigns. This could be a serious lead. But at the same time, is it really new? It is only confirmation of what had seemed probable from the start.
Anyway, Bornand wants names, I can always give him these, they’re credible. Then it’s up to him to do what he wants. I’ve fulfilled my contract. It’s two a.m., the airfield is very quiet, may as well carry on ferreting around
.

The next file, a reply from Aurelio Parada, Brazil. Yes, he does have thirty-three toys of superior size and quality, Frenchmade, in working order, from the Argentinean army.
Exocets
, thinks Moricet.
Camoc is ratcheting up its activities
. In the same file, Mohamed Djimil confirms to Camoc that he’ll take the thirty-three toys in question, and is immediately transferring the agreed deposit in dollars to Camoc’s Swiss bank account. Finally, Parada informs him of the despatch of the toys to the Comores, on 15 November 1985. Moricet feels a rush of excitement.
Comores, Denard, French mercenaries in sub-Saharan Africa, Djimil – you can bet the Exocets will end up in Tehran. The opening up of a new arms supply route to Iran, now that’s a valuable piece of information. And Camoc is playing a part in the operation. A political manoeuvre? Bornand can make what he likes of it, not my problem.

What do I do? Do I take the documents and get out, or do I pick up the boss, as planned?
It’s four o’clock in the morning. He decides to stay. He crams the files that interest him into a plastic bag, drags a chair over so it will be hidden behind the door when it opens, takes his revolver out of its holster, lays it on his knee, rests his head against the wall, and dozes off.

At eight o’clock, the office slowly comes to life, they’re not early
risers in these parts. Moricet, concealed behind the door, puts his revolver on the floor. The door opens and a man enters. Moricet kicks the door shut, pinions the man from behind in a stranglehold, tightly enough to prevent him from shouting, and with his free hand gives him an injection in the buttock. In two or three seconds, the body goes limp, Moricet releases his hold and the man crumples to the floor. Moricet checks that it is indeed De Lignières, boss of Camoc, his eyes rolled upwards, his face flaccid. Shoots heroin, according to the Syrians.
As long as he doesn’t snuff it straight away
. Moricet puts his revolver back in its holster and from his tool belt he extracts a very large, strong plastic bag and slides the body into it. It’s no easy job, the body’s limp and heavy and he must move fast. He throws in the files and clamps the bag shut, then goes over to the window, opens it and looks around. Three hundred metres away is his team’s little jet, engines throbbing. The only obstacle is exiting the office through the window without being spotted. He has around twenty minutes. He observes the comings and goings for a moment, then lays the bag across the windowsill, jumps out, which costs him a huge effort, and heaves the bag onto his shoulder. The team on board the plane should be ready to intervene if necessary. Nothing happens. Whistling, he heads for the plane. The bag’s heavy. No hindrances. He climbs into the plane, throws down the bag and looks at his watch:
ten minutes to go and time to spare
.

Lift-off. De Lignières, propped up in a seat, comes round groggily, in a state of shock. Moricet, leaning against a seat facing him, offers him a bottle of water. De Lignières drinks and splashes his face.

‘Let me explain the situation. I work for the SEA, and they’re not happy about the disappearance of their plane en route to Tehran.’

The dazed De Lignières appears not to understand.

‘The SEA suspects Camoc is involved.’

De Lignières vigorously shakes his head. Impossible.

‘Wait. First let me explain the rules of the game. Right now we’re circling over Beirut. You answer my questions convincingly and we take you back to Halat, and we don’t see each other again. Otherwise … I take you to Paris, where a reception committee is waiting for you. Shall I begin?’

De Lignières nods.

‘The Brazilian Exocets, are they for Iran?’

A shrug.

‘I’ve no idea.’ He continues in a completely broken voice: ‘I have only one customer, the one who pays. And it’s not the Iranians …’

Moricet leans forward, pressing his finger at a precise point on the sternum. Unable to breathe, a sharp pain shooting up to the back of his neck, De Lignières makes no attempt to defend himself. He’s all in.

‘Let me put it another way: who are the Djimils working for in this affair? Iran?’

‘I think so, but I’m not certain.’

Moricet relaxes the pressure.

‘That’s better. Explain.’

‘We sent a team to Tehran, to take delivery of the SEA consignment. The Iranians asked them to stay to adapt some Exocets due to arrive any day. It can only be those. There aren’t that many Exocets circulating freely.’

It all adds up.

‘And did you give the Djimils the info on the SEA deliveries to help them eliminate a competitor?’

‘That’s ridiculous. How do you expect me to? … I don’t
know anything about that delivery. Not the name of the carrier, or the dates, or the airport it left from, nothing … all I know is what’s happening in Tehran.’

That also rings true. Moricet straightens up.
I stick my neck out for Bornand, and he sends me up a blind alley. Beirut’s my patch, I can’t afford to make a mistake. I’ll destroy all evidence of my visit to Camoc and give him the Djimils’ name. Then he’s on his own
. He motions to the two men sitting at the back of the aircraft and goes into the cockpit. The two men bear down on De Lignières, lift him up, one holding each arm, drag him gasping for breath towards the middle of the plane, open the hatch and push him out. Two thousand metres below, the Mediterranean is a violent blue.

The house at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht is locked up, the curtains open, no sign of life. The Crime Squad detectives make door-to-door inquiries around the neighbourhood.

‘Of course, everyone knows Chardon, you bump into him all the time, but only to say hello to. You should ask Madame Carvalho, his cleaner, she’s a concierge in an apartment block at the bottom of the hill.’

A lively woman, who, no doubt for very personal reasons, does not seem enamoured of the police.

‘And besides, up there, we’re a community. It’s pretty much a family and we don’t like people bothering us.’ Yes, she cleans for Monsieur Chardon every morning. No, she doesn’t know where he is.

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Friday morning. He was having a bath when I arrived.
Then, he went out for lunch and I finished clearing up. And on Monday, the house was in exactly the same state I’d left it on Friday. Except there was a dirty coffee cup in the sink, which I washed.’

An inspector shows her a photo of Fatima Rashed.

‘Have you ever seen this woman?’

‘No, never.’

‘Could she have come to the house without you seeing her?’

‘I’m not up there all the time.’

‘This young woman is dead. She was murdered on Friday. And Chardon is the last person to have seen her alive.’

Her expression inscrutable, Madame Carvalho says nothing.

‘Could you come to the house with us, while we have a look around?’

‘Have you got a warrant?’

‘OK, we’ll come back tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock outside number 38. Be there to assist with the search. And let us know immediately if Chardon reappears before then. Goodbye, Madame Carvalho.’

The Crime Squad chief drops into the 19th
arrondissement
police headquarters.

‘This afternoon, conference in the chambers of the investigating magistrate who’s handling this case, at the law courts. She’d like you to be there, Bonfils.’

Then he adds jokingly, as he turns towards Noria:

‘We’ve found the address of Chardon, the man who had lunch with Rashed at the brasserie. He lives around the corner from here, at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht. He seems to have vanished. If you come across him, be a darling and let us know …’

It is twelve forty-five p.m. Tardivel leaves his apartment in the prestigious rue de Marignan, a stone’s throw from Mado’s place, and walks tranquilly down the street towards avenue Montaigne and place de l’Alma. He has a lunch appointment at Marius and Jeannette’s. In his fifties, he has a sinuous, supple body, sparse fair hair, a lifeless face with pointed features, and wears owl spectacles. For the first time in ages, he feels relaxed, the nightmare’s over. Chardon, photos, adolescents, blackmail, and, last Saturday, finally, the masters in the post. So yesterday, he dared resume contact with his go-between, an appointment for lunch in a few minutes’ time. He’s chosen a very good restaurant, near his home, on his expense account, and this evening perhaps … life’s looking good again.

On the same side of the street, Fernandez advances in his direction with a buoyant step and a smile on his face, keeping his eyes firmly on the big saloon car with tinted windows driving slowly towards him. When it draws level with Tardivel, Fernandez hastens his step, opens the rear door, shoves him into the car with his shoulder, dives in after him and slams the door. The saloon pulls away without speeding up. No reaction on the pavement, unlike inside the vehicle. Once over the initial shock, Tardivel turns around, tries to open the door, which is locked, and clutches the driver’s neck, protesting violently. Then he falls still. The nightmare’s back. Rammed right up under his nose, on the back of the driver’s seat, is the photo he knows so well of him buggering a very young adolescent, and a kid sitting on the floor, looking despairingly into the lens. Fernandez laughs.

‘So, little poofter, calmed down, have we?’ Fernandez caresses
the back of his neck, the muscles are rigid. ‘We’ve decided to be reasonable, that’s better, old fellow.’ Tardivel is ashen, slightly bloated, holding his breath, not the slightest defensive movement. ‘What about your friends of the “work, family and fatherland” persuasion? A photo like this would cause quite a scandal among your respectable friends, wouldn’t it?’

He replies in a hoarse voice:

‘I’ve already paid.’

Fernandez caresses him more intensely.

‘I know and I don’t give a fuck.’

Moving at a crawl, the saloon turns into place de l’Alma, and onto the freeway hugging the Seine, in the direction of porte de Saint-Cloud.

‘Yesterday, your paper received a dossier on the plane that went belly up over Turkey …’

‘I don’t know anything about it, I haven’t been asked to cover the story.’