Back in the mansion in Le Vésinet, Jean-Pascal Bourdelet, Secretary of State for Finance, was just completing a phone call to his secretary. He suspected at times that Cécile Boyesse actually slept in a cupboard at the Louvre Palace, where the Ministry of Economy and Finance was located, as she was always there, early and late, running the office and his busy appointments diary like a well-oiled machine. He thanked her courteously and replaced the phone, reflecting on how long the day’s first meeting would take. No doubt there would be the usual round of deflections and power-plays that were endemic to every department of government, with certain members of staff looking for openings and signs of weakness in others to exploit for their own advancement.
Today, however, he was in good spirits and inclined to put up with the in-fighting. The weather looked far too pleasant to be stuck indoors and he longed for the chance to stay out of the city for the day. However, as secretary of state he had to attend to business; there was no chance of avoiding it.
He heard the jangle of the post bell and walked out of the front door and down the drive. His housekeeper would normally have dealt with this, but she was off this morning for a doctor’s appointment. He sniffed appreciatively at the aroma from the flowers in the borders, and relished the crunch of gravel beneath the soles of his shoes, so much more gratifying than on everyday paving, and the sound so much richer.
He glanced towards the front gates as he heard the tinny clatter of an engine moving away. No doubt the post van. But when he opened the box on the inside of the stonework, instead of the regular banded clutch of letters he received every day, a single white envelope was lying there.
No stamp, he noted.
He took the envelope out and slit it open with his thumb. He scanned the contents, the first few words enough to bring a thud of incredulity and dread. He read it again to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood, his hand shaking as the full meaning began to hit home.
Bourdelet stepped quickly through the open gates to check the street. There was nobody there save, in the distance, the retreating back of an elderly man dragging a tiny dog. They were too far away to have delivered this, he realised, and remembered the sound of the departing vehicle. Just then another engine sounded, this one smoother, the familiar mellow hum of his official car. Its tone dropped as it slowed and he quickly jammed the envelope and note in his pocket before hurrying back to the house, pursued by the crunch of tyres on gravel as Lopez, his driver, drove through the gates.
Bourdelet gave a vague backward wave of acknowledgement, then walked inside and scooped up the phone. Lopez would wait until he was ready. Cécile answered with her usual briskness.
‘You’ll have to postpone the meeting,’ he muttered without preamble. ‘Something’s come up – I’ll be in later. Can’t be helped.’ He felt idiotic at making such a lame statement and picked at his lips, which had gone unaccountably dry.
‘Is anything wrong, sir?’ Cecile queried.
‘Nothing. I feel a little unwell, that’s all. A small ulcer, I think.’
He dropped the handset back on its cradle and wondered what the reaction would be at the office. No doubt rumours about his health would erupt the moment Cécile made it known, followed by the inevitable game of musical chairs that always began when a position threatened to be vacated. It was standard among civil servants, but it would in no way compare with the fallout if the contents of the letter in his pocket ever became known.
He shook himself. It was far easier to justify and excuse his actions, than contemplate the details going public. The revelation would be catastrophic. He would be scorned in some quarters, humiliated in others, and it would bring pure contempt from the public. Worst of all would be the response of the prime minister, who had the moral tone of a Catholic convert allied to a powerful sense of self-protection. With the contents of this letter, he could say goodbye to his political career and to elevation to the Council of Ministers. Once out, always out, was the firm credo in government circles. He’d be cast aside and into the wilderness, with whatever meagre pension he might manage to keep hold of and with the cold rush of derisive laughter following him every step of the way.
And that didn’t compare, he thought, taking out the letter to read again, with what else he would be saying goodbye to if it ever became known that government funds were involved, as was pointed out – correctly – in this note. He swore profusely at the wretched decision to use a little-known caisse noire or departmental slush fund to indulge himself in a moment of weakness. What on earth had taken hold of him? He should have known it would become known sooner or later. Was it some kind of bitter attempt at rewarding himself when those around him – especially the prime minister – seemed to treat him with disdain?
Still, he told himself, grasping for a straw – any straw – it was serious, but at least he wasn’t guilty of any unusual sexual misdemeanours, unlike a couple of colleagues he could mention, one of whom was close to the very top of government, a political as well as a personal favour appointee, who was rumoured to have a liking for very young teenage girls. In that comparison, perhaps, lay his one hope of salvation. Mea culpa, he thought wryly, but not as much as others.
He checked the letter again, hoping for some indication of its origins. But it was unsigned, with a line advising him that payment instructions would follow. He retreated to his study at the rear of the house. It overlooked an expanse of garden, complete with a small lake and dotted with trees and borders. Here he made his most important decisions, whether on matters of state or, more recently, personal matters: granting his wife a divorce because of the growing toxicity of their marriage. At least letting his wife go had been less costly than he’d anticipated, largely because an investigator he’d hired had discovered that she had already replaced him with a younger, sleeker and more athletic model. Young enough to be her son, for God’s sake, he thought. Still, it could have been worse. Now he could at least consider his options regarding this bombshell free of the restraints of an unsympathetic and, at worst, unhelpful wife.
He looked up and found himself standing beneath the very reason for his discomfort. The irony didn’t escape him, but he gave it only a passing glance, as if not acknowledging its presence might allow him to deny its existence for just a little longer.
The painting was large, dominating the wall as much by its size as the presence of the subject. She was a beautiful young brunette with an enigmatic smile and an inviting look about her, dressed in the classical style. He’d loved it the moment he’d set eyes on it, and although it had cost a small fortune, he’d deemed it worth every centime. Coming in here every day and being alone with Madame Récamier, as she was known, invariably soothed him after a hard day’s work.
He stared instead at the wall opposite. But reality soon came rushing in. He could deny the contents of the letter, of course, until the proverbial cows came home. He could even take the painting down and hide it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to help. He’d been hoisted by his own brand of hubris, because there were people who knew of the painting’s place in his home, just as they did his not-so-guarded hints as to its considerable cost. The pleasure for him had been seeing the awestruck expressions on their faces at the information, and even a hint of respect for his financial situation and artistic appreciation.
No, a denial wouldn’t do. The only alternative was to follow the instructions in the letter and pay up. It would be costly, even painful, on a personal level. But he could see no way round it; he’d have to take the hit, as he’d once heard an American diplomat say.
He took another tour of the room, his thoughts ranging around the alternatives and on what else might follow. What if the matter didn’t end there? Blackmailers, once they had their hooks into a target, were known to come back for more. The very fact of a victim having paid up in the first place confirmed that they had something to hide. More demands would follow, he knew it in his bones. His position guaranteed it. His wealth, such as it was, was mainly inherited, a fact gleefully documented in the press more than once by his political enemies. But that particular well wasn’t so deep that it couldn’t be emptied, no more than his capacity to withstand the public humiliation if the blackmailer made good the threat outlined in the letter. He felt sick as the full import of what he’d brought upon himself began to hit home. The humiliation would be complete and lasting; the thought of everyone knowing he was a thief and a liar – a fraud, no less – was like a dagger to the gut. The downfall would be swift and his enemies would relish seeing him end his days in prison, a figure of contempt. By the third tour of the study, he’d come to a firm decision. He couldn’t count on the PM to defend him if and when the news came out, and the idea that he might be able to use some personal leverage to slip out from under the axe was a pipe dream. The fact that others had managed to do so for greater indiscretions was no guarantee. For one, the PM and he had never quite made that kind of connection. Forced together by circumstance and convenience, he knew above all else that his position was at best tolerated, at worst, on eggshell-thin ground.
He rummaged in a lower desk drawer and picked out a wooden box, transferring it to his briefcase. Walking outside, where he was greeted by Lopez standing by the open rear door of the car, he reflected that he didn’t need the briefcase, but carrying his badge of office was as instinctive as breathing. Without it he would feel naked. He climbed into the car and closed the dividing glass partition to indicate his need for quiet. Conversation, right now, was the last thing he wanted.
On reaching the office, he walked upstairs, relishing the smell and atmosphere of the building, and feeling that in getting this far in his chosen profession, he had achieved something concrete in his life.
He walked past Cécile, already busy at her desk, and nodded briefly, telling her that he needed a few minutes and not to come in. She acknowledged this with a faint frown and watched as he closed the door behind him.
Once inside, he turned the key in the lock before taking his seat. He took the box from his briefcase and opened it, laying it on his desk. Inside was a moulded tray. Nestling against the felt cushion was something that both frightened him and filled him with awe. It was a steel-grey revolver.
He lifted the heavy weapon out and set it to one side, then took out the letter and envelope. He placed these on the open box, which he pushed to the front of his desk. He had no idea who the author was, but there was some bitter salvation in that, from it, any investigators would be able to find a lead.
He removed his jacket, his eyes on the gun. There was no need to check if it was loaded because he knew it was. Nor was he inclined to take a final look out of his window; the view had never been much good: a stretch of dull grey wall in permanent shadow from the building next door, uninspiring and soulless. And right now, anything more attractive would have been an unwanted distraction.
He took a deep breath and thought through what he was about to do. There would be no payment of the blackmail sum for what he’d done, at least he could deny them that. And, if living under the conditions that faced him was impossible to contemplate, he might at least in the alternative achieve some small level of belated integrity. Whatever revelations or humiliation might be heaped on his name afterwards, there was nothing he could do to change it. Nor, he reflected, would there be too much sorrow from his passing, especially from his ex-wife or his daughter Karine, both estranged beyond return.
With a final thought for the one person who had always been loyal to him, now sitting in the office on the other side of the door, he picked up the gun and pulled his jacket over his head. After a moment of hesitation, maybe even a fleeting sense of regret, he put the tip of the gun barrel beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.