I WANT A WOMAN, the general declared. A woman is what I need, you see.
In that case, you’re not the only one. Paul Objat smiled. Spare me your infantile humor, retorted the general, stiffening. This is no joking matter. Show a little decorum, for God’s sake. Objat’s smile vanished: I beg your pardon, General. Very well, now, let’s move on, said the officer. We must give this some thought.
It was close to noon. The two men proceeded to give it some thought, seated on either side of a green metal writing desk, an old regulation coffered model belonging to the general. The top of this desk was occupied only by an unlit lamp, a box of Panter Tango cigarillos, an empty ashtray, and a very worn-looking desk blotter that looked as if it had absorbed and then concluded a number of cases since, let’s say, the Ben Barka affair in 1965. The green writing desk was situated at the back of an austere room with one window overlooking a paved barracks courtyard. In addition to the desk, there were two tubular chairs upholstered with fake leather, three filing cabinets, and a shelf bearing the weight of a cumbersome, grime-encrusted computer. All of this was rather old-looking and the general’s chair did not seem especially comfortable: its armrests were rusted, its first-generation polyurethane padding clearly visible—falling out in clumps, in fact—through the cracks in the corners.
The bells of the nearby church, Notre-Dame-des-Otages, tolled twelve times. The general picked up a cigarillo, examined it, massaged it, sniffed it, then put it back in its case. A woman, he repeated quietly, as if to himself. A woman, he said again, raising his voice, but not just any woman. Certainly not one of those interns that one finds everywhere. Someone with no connection to the networks, if you see what I mean? Not entirely, Objat felt obligated to admit. Well, you know, someone innocent, the general explained. Someone who has no idea what is going on, who will do whatever we tell her, who won’t ask questions. And pretty, too, if possible.
That’s quite a list of requirements, Objat pointed out. It won’t be easy to find one like that. I realize that, the general nodded. He opened his Panter Tango box again, stared affectionately at the cigarillos, and then delicately closed the lid, while Paul Objat’s gaze wandered over the room’s walls, which had not been repainted in years and large portions of which were decorated with various documents: photographs (some more blurred than others) of people, things, and places, many of them connected by arrows drawn in marker pen, index cards clipped to abstruse diagrams, press cuttings, lists of names, maps crisscrossed with threads held in place by multicolored pins. An official portrait of the president of the republic. Nothing personal: no pictures of family, no postcards sent by vacationing colleagues, no van Gogh reproductions or any nonsense like that.
Putting aside all notions of professional discretion and national security, let us first specify the identity of the superior officer. General Bourgeaud, sixty-eight years old, a former member of the Action Service—devoted to the planning and implementation of secret operations—specialized in the infiltration and exfiltration of sensitive persons for intelligence purposes. Sharp-faced, cold-eyed . . . but let’s not go into too many details just now: we’ll return to his appearance a little later. Given his age, his superiors have gradually lightened his responsibilities in recent years. In consideration of his faithful service, however, they have allowed him to retain the use of his office, and of his orderly. He is still on full pay but no longer has an official vehicle. Unwilling to be thrown onto the scrap heap completely, Bourgeaud continues to organize a few operations on the sly. To keep his hand in. To keep himself busy. And to keep his country safe, of course.
Facing him, likewise dressed in civilian clothes, Paul Objat is rather a handsome man, half the general’s age. He is soft-spoken, with a calm gaze, and his lips are constantly curled in an almost imperceptible smile that might be reassuring or disturbing, depending on the situation, a little bit like the actor Billy Bob Thornton’s smile. I might have an idea, said Objat. Good, develop it then, the general encouraged him, before going into more detail about his project.
The most important thing, you see, will be to put her through a sort of purge once we’ve found her. Take her completely off the grid for a while before the operation begins. A kind of isolation therapy, if you like. The personality changes in cases like that. I’m not saying the character is destroyed, but it creates more suitable reactions; it leaves the subject more ductile.
What do you mean by ductile? Objat asked. I don’t know that adjective. Well, let’s say tractable, obedient, flexible, malleable. You get my drift? Yes, said Objat, I think I do. In fact, I think I may have several ideas regarding that.
No need to go overboard either, the general made clear, having given the matter some more thought. When I talk about this purifying treatment, which strikes me as necessary, it might not be a bad idea to begin by provoking a mild state of shock. And don’t hesitate to scare her a little bit, if need be. No violence, though, of course. That goes without saying, General, Objat smiled once again. In fact, I think my idea is beginning to take shape. Given the outline of your plan, it might even be a very good idea. Yes, I think I know someone who could be the perfect fit. The right profile, available . . . She might prove to be quite ductile, as you put it. With the right preparation, it could work. Pretty, is she? the general asked. Not bad at all, Objat reassured him.
Do you know her well? Not really, said Objat. I met her once at a dinner party and found her interesting. The main thing is that she doesn’t know me. Of course, agreed the general, that’s fundamental. This is a delicate operation, with a unique scenario. I agree, Objat said, but aren’t you getting a little hungry? I’ve heard about a pretty good restaurant, not far from here, next to the Jourdain metro station. We wouldn’t even have to change trains. Well, it’s true that I don’t have the car anymore, the general mused, but . . . well, yes, all right. Let’s go by metro, then.
After the general took a cigarillo from the box and slipped it into his breast pocket, the two men put on their raincoats—slate gray for one, pearl gray for the other—despite the fact that not a single drop of rain was falling on the Boulevard Mortier, where they proceeded to walk, in the twentieth arrondissement of Paris. As they made their way toward the Porte des Lilas station, about a quarter of a mile from the barracks, General Bourgeaud congratulated Paul Objat without looking at him, in a grumbling, almost severe voice that did not go with his words. I knew I could count on you, Objat. You often have the right kind of ideas. You’ve served me damned well, and I . . . well, I like you, Objat. Knowing his superior officer as he did, Objat could not help being rather startled by this declaration.
At the restaurant, they had a pig’s ear salad followed by beef cheek stew. So, that woman? the general asked. I’ll get started on it this afternoon, Objat promised. I need to do some research and make a few phone calls. But the more I think about it, the more I think this will work. Even better than you can possibly imagine. I won’t have any trouble finding her—I know more or less where she lives.
Whereabouts is she? inquired Bourgeaud distractedly while tearing off a piece of ear. She’s in the sixteenth arrondissement, replied Objat, near Chaillot. Nice area, the general noted. Very peaceful . . . but slightly sad, isn’t it? Well, that’s what people say, anyway. For myself, I’ve never left my little first-floor apartment near the Observatoire; I’ve always liked it there. What about you, Objat? Whereabouts do you live? Well, to tell the truth, General, Objat answered evasively, it’s a little bit complicated at the moment. Let’s just say that I’m between places.