Rough Trade (14 page)

‘I’ve some good news and some bad news,
patron
. Which shall I begin with?’

‘You can begin by making me a coffee, Attali. And you can then tell me the bad.’

‘It seems VL is nowhere to be found. She hasn’t slept at her girlfriend’s, hasn’t left any message, and Sobesky’s son hasn’t seen her again. None of her employers have heard from her since
midday
yesterday.’

‘We’ll see tomorrow morning. What next?’

‘The Drugs team who’ve been watching the shops since Monday last have left a big batch of photos. I’ve been working on them, and I’ve compared them with ours. I’ve made up a file of about thirty faces, let’s say, the hard core of people using the shops regularly. All we have to do is identify them. We can begin by comparing them with the twenty-two names found at the National
Immigration
Office. It may take a long time and need quite a few people on it.’

‘I wouldn’t think so. I’ll take charge of that. Next?’

‘Our colleagues in Drugs have told us that none of the regulars, except for the owner, turned up on Friday.’

‘Yesterday? Now, that does interest me. Ask them, even so, to keep their surveillance going till Monday.’

‘D’you think the traffickers can have closed down using the shops, after VL was arrested?’

‘It’s possible. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Sobesky’s American associate is in Paris.’

‘Go on. Tell me.’ Daquin was suddenly very tense.

‘Sobesky phoned a manufacturer yesterday evening with whom he had an appointment at Deauville during the weekend, to put him off, as his associate had turned up unexpectedly from New York. He’s dining with him today.’

‘Baker never called him?’

‘No. I’ve listened to everything again. No trace.’

‘Thursday or Friday, Baker’s in Paris. Friday, VL disappears. The shops are put out of bounds. Coincidence?’

‘Wait. That’s not all. On Friday Sobesky was giving his agents a rocket all day. They didn’t want to sell his new collection of raincoats, the prices are too low, the margins aren’t big enough.’

‘Rivetting.’

‘These raincoats are going to be delivered at the end of the month. They’re coming from Romania.’

Romania? Which has six hundred kilometres of shared border with Bulgaria.

Returning home by taxi to change, have a bath, read a bit before meeting Lenglet, Daquin felt tired suddenly. His thoughts were that he was probably being followed and that he was going back to a house where Soleiman no longer was, and it was a shame. He opened his front door and, closing it behind him, stopped abruptly, without switching on the light. It smelled of stale tobacco. Not strong enough to alert a smoker, but there was no possible doubt as far as he was concerned, for he didn’t allow cigarettes in the house. Some unknown person had been in here, and had stayed long enough to smoke one or more cigarettes. To do what? Look through his papers? There weren’t any here. Bug the place? Plant a bomb? If I switch on the light, he thought, it could set it off. But if I don’t put the light on and go out again straight away, the man following me could be outside, most probably under the porch at this very moment and will know that I know. And if these people are traffickers, my chances of catching them will diminish. Daquin crouched down, turned his back on the room and, stretching up his arm, switched on the light.

Nothing happened. So far so good. He sat on the floor, breathed again, relaxed. Now was a time to reflect. Someone was tailing him. Was it to find out how far the investigation had progressed? There were simpler, more discreet methods for the concerted
services
of the police, just as there were for traffickers. Was it to find a way of putting him under pressure to make him sing one way or another? Was it people who knew he was gay? That could mean a great many people. It was possible. They would have placed a lot of bugs in his house. That was the most likely. It was therefore
unproductive
to take risks. I simply won’t move, he thought, and tomorrow I’ll get the house examined by specialists. Still two hours to go before the meeting with Lenglet. He propped himself up as comfortably as he could. Nothing at hand to read.

He sat thinking about his father, as he had at midday, playing golf. Authoritarian and cold. He’d never touched his son. Never a kiss, not even a handshake. He used to put gloves on to make love to his wife – my mother. My mother who got plastered on booze and medicines to forget her husband – my father. The happiest moments of my childhood were those endless walks in the forest in the holidays at Grandmother’s. And then, in that same forest, the year he was thirteen – the rape. The year his mother died. Suddenly, an obsessive thought came into his head: I’ve no way of protecting Soleiman. And then the flash of an image: his tanned body, under the orange duvet. Asleep. Inanimate. I don’t want you to die, he thought.

At the wheel of his Renault 5 Martens drove into the car-park
reserved
for owners and trainers. Romero let him go on a little ahead, then introduced himself with his warrant card. The man at the gate raised his eyebrows, but allowed him through. But, just in the time it took to park, Martens had vanished. Romero entered the racecourse enclosure and bought a programme for the evening’s races, which were to begin in two hours’ time. In the second: Rheingold, owner D. Martens. He went along to the stable area, found where the horses in the second race were stabled. And there, inside the maze of looseboxes, he saw Martens, feverishly walking around a very pretty trotting horse, small build, burnt chestnut in colour. Just as Romero was passing them, the jockey’s stable lad pushed Martens gently but firmly out of the box.

‘Scram! You’re making the horse nervous. Go and have a drink, we’ll see you after the race.’

Inspiration. Romero caught Martens by the arm, gave him a big smile, and began: ‘Oh well, that’s that. I’ll take you away. Let’s go and have a drink.’

Martens leaned on his arm and followed him. Martens didn’t want to go up to the Panorama restaurant, he preferred to stay in the great hall where all the punters were, he felt more anonymous like that, he would have liked the ground to swallow him up. They went to the bar on the ground floor to drink a pastis
together
. It was crowded, but there was no risk of losing one another. Martens clung to Romero as if he were suddenly all the family he had.

‘You know, it’s the first time one of my horses is running at Vincennes.’

‘Do you have many?’

‘No, only two. They are trained in the Orne, 200 kilometres from Paris. I’ve had to put up with a lot of disruption to see them run, but I’ve never missed one of their races. And you?’

He would have to remain evasive, otherwise how could he
explain
his presence within the confines of the looseboxes. But the question and the reply were of no importance. Martens was only interested in his horses and himself. Romero ordered another round of pastis.

‘Have you placed your bets on the first?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Go and do it, quickly. I’ll wait for you here and then we’ll go and find seats in the stand.’

Romero had never gambled, not at a racecourse, or a betting shop, or at the corner tobacconist’s. He observed what others were doing in front of him and put two lots of ten francs to win on two horses, chosen at random, nos. 4 and 11. And for the second, 500 francs to win on Rheingold. I can’t do less, he thought. Whether it would be accepted as justifiable expenses would be another matter.

He climbed up to the stand. Martens was ashen, tense, and more and more silent. Romero was caught up in the spectacle. Projectors produced an unreal light in the dusk. The sulkys passed back and forth in front of the stands: horses like automatons, horses that flew, astonishing bursts of speed. And the roar from the stands began to mount. It was cold. The horses were under orders. They were off. Romero tried to find nos. 4 and 11. He never succeeded. Happily the loudspeaker was there, accompanying the race with a sort of recitative. The roar grew louder. No. 4 took the lead, the stands shouted, no. 4 had won, the stands emptied. Romero turned to Martens, astounded: I’ve won. A weak smile from Martens: Congratulations.

‘You seem pretty down in the dumps. I won’t desert you though. I’ll pick up my winnings a bit later.’

‘You know, to see my horse run at Vincennes is really important to me. I’d never have believed it possible. My colours on this course. But you’ve seen the odds aren’t good.’

‘Have you owned horses for a long time?’

‘Five years. Five years I’ve sacrificed all my money to them and every one of my weekends.’

Five years at least since his scam’s been in operation, Romero thought. The horses for the second race had entered the course.

Rheingold, no. 5, grey vest with two orange stripes, orange cap. Romero had a flashback: the girl’s dress at the lunch had had the same orange and the coat had been grey. Was it a present from Martens?

The horses were under orders. They were lining up at the
starting
gates. Martens clasped Romero’s arm. The loudspeaker took up its chant again. No. 5 made a mess of his start, vanished into the depths of the cluster. Romero was surprised with himself: at the tight feeling in his chest. Martens was swaying and muttering,
talking
to his horse like a mother to her sick baby. The horses passed in front of the stand. Thunder of hooves, roar from the stands. No. 5 in the anonymous mass. Romero couldn’t manage to track it down. Then in the line opposite, he saw no. 5 moving to the
outside
. The last lap: no. 5 was getting under way with a superior speed, all alone on the outside. Last straight, the speaker
overexcited
, no. 5 was passing the pack, and with a superb effort, a final burst of speed, it reached the finishing line, and crossed it in the lead. Romero was panting, and so hypnotized by no. 5’s race that he hadn’t even heard the stands this time. He turned to Martens, sitting as white as a sheet, tears in his eyes.

‘Excuse me. My head’s spinning.’

Romero looked at him: he had to stick to him like a leech now, he was going to crack. Instinct of the hunt. He caught him under his arms and put him back on his feet.

‘We must go and congratulate the winners.’

He held him up as he walked.

Jostling, laughter, kisses, congratulations. Officials. Cup. All that flew past. The jockey was running in the fourth. He hardly had any time to spend with Martens. Martens accompanied his horse to the loosebox. Romero took the opportunity to collect his winnings while the third race was starting. His winnings were more than he earned in a month. The evening was becoming surreal. He ran towards the looseboxes. Found Martens again, who was gazing at his horse, punch drunk and full of love. It really had been
beautiful
: now, after the race, it had become a trotting horse, as though it had disintegrated through the effort. The stable lad was busy
washing
him, rubbing him down, protecting his legs.

‘Come on. It’s over. We’re going to celebrate now.’

Martens woke up.

‘OK.’ To the lad. ‘Tell your boss we’ll be at the Rendezvous des Trotteurs, if he wants to join us after the races.’

The pianist was beginning a jazz piece. Daquin sat down at Lenglet’s table in the brasserie where he was waiting for him on a red banquette, in suit and tie, very strict.

‘How did it go at the Quai today?’

‘So-so. At the moment, I’m fed up with the confined atmosphere of the motherhouse. I’d love to go back to the Middle East to be in one of the boxes in the dress circle for the start of the world war Giscard’s announced for the new year.’

‘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
Blue
Monk
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.’