The organizers were scraping back their chairs. Some of them started by pushing out the two photographers, despite the fact that they had been hired to stay until the fireworks began. “What about the cake?” one of them said. “Out. Now!” Others rushed over to the representatives of the press who were signalling to one another: “Have you seen this?” And how – they’d seen it all right. One part of their brain was dialling the editorial offices to get the story in quickly, the other was working out how to leave without being noticed. Their legs were jiggling beneath the tablecloths in desperation to get going. All were staring over at the presidential table.
Their conversation had stalled. Rassmussen was whispering in Louchsky’s ear. And the same was happening with the French President, who appeared to be tearing a strip off his adviser. The wife of the German minister appeared to be asking for more wine; her husband signalled to her that this wasn’t the moment. Douchet got up, went over to the Prime Minister, shook his head, and then sat down again. His wife summoned the string quartet, earlier than planned, and told the wine waiters not to leave a single glass empty. People slowly began to relax again. It would be a shame, after all, not to finish the caviar – it was probably just some huge practical joke, a gang of extremists maybe, out to spoil the party. There were so many of them around these days.
21.06: new message on Twitter.
From table to table you could see backs hunched over: the guests had their phones concealed in the folds of their dresses or under the tablecloth. They were downloading the link. It was a video, quite long. Soon nobody was speaking any more; everybody was watching the case full of banknotes being forced open, the governor issuing threats, Helen saying: “Mr Finley, according to our sources, a governor in Nigeria earns twenty-five thousand dollars a year. You have just bought a house in Hampstead for fifteen million pounds. Can you explain this?” And then the telephone ringing in the office, Helen turning pale, Finley triumphant.
Louchsky too was watching.
Finley rose from his seat. He alone knew what the word “uche” meant. He looked with fury at the back of the British Prime Minister, who was taking care not to move a muscle. The tall, proud figure stormed out of the hall. They all watched him go by, recognizing that snarling jawline from the video still running on their phones. Dellant fell in behind him, thinking this might be just the moment to corner the rights to the port of Lagos. Others watched. The feeling that they were at the right place at the right time had changed into an urge to get out as quickly as possible. Phones began to ring, the organizers ran to and fro, editorial offices were hotting up and soon the cameras and microphones would be at the gates of the palace of Versailles, demanding explanations.
Rassmussen charged into the kitchen, one hand holding his telephone, ringing anyone he could think of, as though the Internet were a tap that could be turned off, and the other waving at the staff, ordering them to serve the main course immediately. He brutally pushed the maître d’ into the hall, where he announced: “Boned pigeon, stuffed with foie gras, with an olive jus!”
Outside, the first television and radio vans were drawing up and unloading their equipment. A call to march on Versailles had been launched on Facebook by a group of net-surfers called “Death to Corruption”. The idea had caught on like wildfire. Those bankers, industrialists and politicians would have a party all right, cornered in the Hall of Mirrors, while the scandal spread throughout the whole information network, supported by videos and mountains of documents. Kay had done his job well.
Vandel, suddenly delighted at having been placed so near the door, got up quickly and left. The Brazilian oil tycoon did the same – after all, drilling hadn’t yet begun in the bay of Santos. Several women followed, on the pretext of powdering their noses, tiptoeing in their stiletto heels, with their husbands behind them. Then the German Finance Minister got up. He left the top table, saying that he had an urgent call from the Chancellor. Louchsky nodded, but did not look up or shake his hand; he was watching the French President frantically signalling to his prime minister who was at the next table. The former seemed to be reminding the latter of an ancient constitutional custom: you’re the connection, so you stay.