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Authors: Dominique Manotti
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room, no grand receptions, but meetings with handpicked associates, personal bonds forming, networks being reinforced, with Bornand at the centre, at the hub of the power machine, elegant and controlling. An instrument of power, and the thrill that goes with it.
Five or six years back, not that long ago and right here in this very room, Bornand had introduced him to his Iranian friends, a few months after the overthrow of the Shah, in the middle of the US Embassy hostage crisis. Two men in their forties, Harvard graduates, in dark suits, equally at ease with the Canaletto and the Picasso. They headed up the international pool of lawyers brought in to support the Iranian government in the countless international disputes resulting from the Islamic revolution. Being part of this pool changed his life, introducing him into the business world operating at planetary level, and making his law firm one of the most prominent inParis, with branches in ten countries. It also made him a fully-fledged member of Bornand’s ‘family’, and it was to Bornand he partly owed his wealth.
Martenot turns around, Bornand’s slim figure has just entered the room. He’s sporting a beige polo-neck sweater with leather elbow patches, brown velvet trousers and worn tawny leather moccasins. He walks over to Nicolas, puts his arm around his shoulders and hugs him briefly. There’s a great deal of affection in his gesture. Then he turns to the manservant:
‘Bring us some coffee, Antoine, and then you may leave.’
A fine porcelain tray bearing pastries and chocolates. Relaxed, Bornand pours the coffee then sinks into an armchair.
‘When did you get back from Tehran?’
‘Last night, at around ten.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s not good news.’
‘As I feared.’
‘My trip was timed to coincide with the first missile deliveries. The disappearance of the plane caused mayhem.’ Bornand listens closely but says nothing. ‘I met our friends, separately, then all together. They’re unanimous: there’s nothing left to negotiate. You’ve been aware of their demands in return for freeing the hostages for nearly a year, and still nothing. They’re beginning to doubt that you’re in a position to break the deadlock in Paris. Especially as the RPR right-wing opposition party sent an envoy to Tehran, a certain Antonelli, do you know him?’ Bornand nods. ‘I haven’t met him, obviously, but I’ve kept a close eye on him. He’s offering the Iranians better loan repayment conditions and arms deals after the RPR wins the March election, providing they refuse to negotiate with us now.’
‘The Iranians aren’t stupid. They’re only too aware that the Gaullists have always had a special relationship with Iraq, that they negotiated major arms deals and the contract to build Iraq’s nuclear power station. They can’t rely on pre-election promises.’
‘They see the sabotage of the plane as the result of French political infighting …’
‘They’re not wrong.’
‘… and to be honest, they’ve had enough. In a nutshell, they’re giving you two weeks to progress their demands in a visible and public way, otherwise, they’ll break off all contact until the much heralded election of March ’86. And bye-bye hostages.’
‘An ultimatum?’
‘Exactly. Can you meet it?’
Bornand thinks long and hard, his eyes half closed, rubbing the palm of his left hand. A sharp, stimulating pain. Nicolas watches him carefully.
‘Well, François?’
Bornand sits up.
‘Two weeks isn’t long.’
‘But why, why? You know as well as I do that Iraq is on its last legs and will never pay for the arms we supply. Iran is winning the war financially. There’s a rapprochement between Saudi Arabia and Tehran, and the Saudis want a war with no winner and no loser. Why the delay? Not to mention the Americans. Or rather yes, let’s mention them. In Tehran, I met Green. His room was next to mine …’
‘That can’t be a coincidence
Five or six years back, not that long ago and right here in this very room, Bornand had introduced him to his Iranian friends, a few months after the overthrow of the Shah, in the middle of the US Embassy hostage crisis. Two men in their forties, Harvard graduates, in dark suits, equally at ease with the Canaletto and the Picasso. They headed up the international pool of lawyers brought in to support the Iranian government in the countless international disputes resulting from the Islamic revolution. Being part of this pool changed his life, introducing him into the business world operating at planetary level, and making his law firm one of the most prominent inParis, with branches in ten countries. It also made him a fully-fledged member of Bornand’s ‘family’, and it was to Bornand he partly owed his wealth.
Martenot turns around, Bornand’s slim figure has just entered the room. He’s sporting a beige polo-neck sweater with leather elbow patches, brown velvet trousers and worn tawny leather moccasins. He walks over to Nicolas, puts his arm around his shoulders and hugs him briefly. There’s a great deal of affection in his gesture. Then he turns to the manservant:
‘Bring us some coffee, Antoine, and then you may leave.’
A fine porcelain tray bearing pastries and chocolates. Relaxed, Bornand pours the coffee then sinks into an armchair.
‘When did you get back from Tehran?’
‘Last night, at around ten.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s not good news.’
‘As I feared.’
‘My trip was timed to coincide with the first missile deliveries. The disappearance of the plane caused mayhem.’ Bornand listens closely but says nothing. ‘I met our friends, separately, then all together. They’re unanimous: there’s nothing left to negotiate. You’ve been aware of their demands in return for freeing the hostages for nearly a year, and still nothing. They’re beginning to doubt that you’re in a position to break the deadlock in Paris. Especially as the RPR right-wing opposition party sent an envoy to Tehran, a certain Antonelli, do you know him?’ Bornand nods. ‘I haven’t met him, obviously, but I’ve kept a close eye on him. He’s offering the Iranians better loan repayment conditions and arms deals after the RPR wins the March election, providing they refuse to negotiate with us now.’
‘The Iranians aren’t stupid. They’re only too aware that the Gaullists have always had a special relationship with Iraq, that they negotiated major arms deals and the contract to build Iraq’s nuclear power station. They can’t rely on pre-election promises.’
‘They see the sabotage of the plane as the result of French political infighting …’
‘They’re not wrong.’
‘… and to be honest, they’ve had enough. In a nutshell, they’re giving you two weeks to progress their demands in a visible and public way, otherwise, they’ll break off all contact until the much heralded election of March ’86. And bye-bye hostages.’
‘An ultimatum?’
‘Exactly. Can you meet it?’
Bornand thinks long and hard, his eyes half closed, rubbing the palm of his left hand. A sharp, stimulating pain. Nicolas watches him carefully.
‘Well, François?’
Bornand sits up.
‘Two weeks isn’t long.’
‘But why, why? You know as well as I do that Iraq is on its last legs and will never pay for the arms we supply. Iran is winning the war financially. There’s a rapprochement between Saudi Arabia and Tehran, and the Saudis want a war with no winner and no loser. Why the delay? Not to mention the Americans. Or rather yes, let’s mention them. In Tehran, I met Green. His room was next to mine …’
‘That can’t be a coincidence
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