Affairs of State by Dominique Manotti Page A

know he was mixed up with Katryn?’
    ‘Chardon has a dossier on clandestine arms sales to Iran. No need for me to elaborate further. And he’s trying to sell it to the press.’
    ‘Storm warning?’
    ‘Let’s say a gale.’ Bornand addresses Mado again. ‘Last Friday I sent Fernandez to tail Chardon. And he found him having lunch with Katryn in a brasserie near Buttes Chaumont. I have to say I thought she might be his source. I had her working with the Iranians a lot.’
    ‘And was she?’
    ‘No. I’ve since obtained the dossier. Too well documented. It couldn’t have come from Katryn.’
    Mado gives Cecchi a questioning look, then says:
    ‘The Crime Squad have heard of this Chardon character. They’re looking for him. Apparently he’s the last person to have seen Katryn alive.’
    ‘Will you be getting regular updates on the progress of their investigation?’
    ‘I’ve made arrangements to be kept informed.’
    ‘If you find out anything at all about him, I’m interested. There’s no way he could have come across that dossier by chance. I’m looking for any leads that could put me on the trail of the person who gave it to him.’
    ‘Fair’s fair, François,’ replies Cecchi. ‘We don’t want Mado’s name to appear in the proceedings.’
    ‘I’ll take care of that. The prosecutor is a reasonable man and a friend.’
    ‘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 broughtover 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