CHAPTER 5
I have to go back to my narcotics squad office to report.
I’ve been following Emma since her return to Paris. Nothing really exciting.
She’s paid a courtesy visit to her parents in Maisons Laffitte, but she didn’t sleep there.
She chose a shabby hotel in Montmartre. Of course, the drug is less noticed over there.
Then she showed up in the office of a company in the 18th, came out with a guy of her age who looked clean though.
Now she’s back to her hotel.
I return to my office to do a little investigation in the police registers.
I want to learn more about this new guy. Being a cop I know very well that appearances are deceptive so even if the guy gave me a good impression, it’s better to find out if I’m right.
Lets’ first have a coffee at the coffee machine.
‘Matthew! Where have you been? I need to talk to you’, my colleague Helen welcomes me.
‘Later. I need to write my report and investigate further on one guy,’ I answer quickly and go to my desk.
I spend more than an hour looking for information. I got the name of the owner of the company she visited today , the young man she came out with. His name is Mark Royan. I spent the hour cross-checking each item, but I find nothing disturbing or suspicious.
The guy has been in the same schools as Emma until the end of high school. After that he studied economics and got a bachelor's degree with flying colors. He followed with some computing and coding classes online.
So basically a regular hard working guy, apparently.
Then he started a video game company--with a friend at first--and has a few employees now. The income seems to be gently coming up, the accounting is clear and neat with taxes, licenses and all the reporting our government requires is in order.
They recently got a big contract with a distributor in the US which ensures them a comfortable and regular income. He is renting a flat in the 18th. In short, nothing extravagant to report.
He’s coming from Maisons-Laffitte -- a nice green suburb west of Paris by the way--, I guess he’s one of Emmas’s childhood friends, and given his look and his gentlemanly attitude towards Emma, I bet that there must have been some romance going on between them. I drop the search.
Let’s go back to her.
Later that day…
‘Nice to meet you! You must be Mark Royan. Would you please wait a few moments here.’ I introduce a young handsome man into a waiting room with green walls, decorated with original paintings.
When I come back for him, I ask him to follow me. We enter my office where I surprise him by taking my seat behind my desk. As usual, I’m sure he was expecting a man and thought I was the secretary when I escorted him in.
Another macho reflex to believe that women are only secretaries and not well-known lawyers. In fact, he probably chose the law firm a little at random, supposing that, in this part of Paris they are all equal. Or maybe he chose us because we’ve existed for several generations.
However the young man has simply forgotten to check that Dominique (my first name ) can also be the name of a woman. He’s trying to hide his surprise, not wishing to be ridiculed because of this slight mistake I suppose. I’m far from stupid. And this moment of surprise to which I’m accustomed still amuses me and is one of those little pleasures in life.
‘Sorry I forgot to present myself : Dominique Thomas’.
We both stand up and shake hands.
‘For what purpose do you want to build a real estate company ?’, I ask the young man
I look at his blue eyes behind his dark framed glasses, which help to give his square but slightly long face an air that inspires trust. His blond haircut, neither too short nor too long, confirmed his look as a teenager. His regular jogger body, which makes him look both muscular and slender, brings a touch of maturity to the whole though. His suit and tie are elegant but still discret, very business like.
‘I’ll need an anonymous company that allows me to purchase and rent buildings in every country in the world, whether civilized or not.’
‘I beg your pardon? What kind of housing do you intend to invest in, in what you call ‘’uncivilized’’ countries?’ Dominique laughs.
‘You can always build hotels or chains of vacation homes for people who wish to escape our society,’ Mark explains. ‘My intention is to make a lot of money. I need several companies in fact, which make it impossible to go back to me, nor my name nor my family. Do you think you can help me or should I come back? ... I would perfectly understand that a lack of experience on your part...’.
He doesn’t finish his sentence.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
But I’m used to this kind of thinking and don’t feel offended any more as in my early days, having now realized that customers need to be reassured and that the number of years seem to be their criterion on this subject. I’ve accepted the fact that my small figure, my thin face give me a girlish look that I try to compensate for by ultra-classic clothes and an irreproachable haircut... but nothing helps. People always think I’m much younger than I am.
The fact that I’ve continued my education well ahead of my age and that I’ve also gained experience at home in contact with my father during our family evenings, isn’t so obvious.
Yet something in this enigmatic client irritates me more than usual and makes me reply a little sharply:
‘My lack of experience, as you say, has already created and managed a hundred companies at least. And my father wouldn’t let me receive you if he didn’t think that...’
What am I actually apologizing for? And this guy is probably younger than I am !
I’m waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come. Instead he tells me a confidence that melts my anger.
‘Forgive my rudeness... I didn’t mean to question your abilities. You're right, age doesn’t matter at all...I'm trying to put you through what I sometimes experience in the business world.
Youth doesn’t give any rights, on the contrary it rather penalizes one. You have twice as much effort to provide...’
The tension disappears between us as if by magic; we just found a common ground and finally smile at each other.
I begin a thorough questioning on his criteria as a client to understand the legal structure that I’m going to put up for him. I take carefully many notes, asking relevant questions, showing a great quality of listening.
‘ I knew I was right by coming through your door. I have to admit that it’s a real pleasure to meet someone of my generation, obviously as passionate as I am. I like your concern for the smallest détails,’ he says openly and honestly.
Wow. I’m not used to this kind of straightforwardness from a client. It’s rather refreshing.
We talk for two hours, during which I offer him a break around a cup of tea and delicious little macaroons, very fashionable in Paris at the moment.
I finally get up and take him back to the front door.
‘I'll call you next week for the first company. You should then be able to sign in a few weeks, once the first recordings are done.’
‘Oh, I thought I could sign by the end of this week. I wanted to put an option on a building that I’m interested in.’
‘Unfortunately things are not going so fast at the administrative level, especially in France. You’ll have to make the agency wait but they should help you without problem. It's up to you to make them understand that you are a serious and future potential customer.’
He thanks me kindly and I’m surprised by the energetic firm and yet so gentle handshake.
... Dominique would have been very surprised indeed to see Mark’s behaviour once outside.
Once on the pavement, back in the open air, he straightens up and lets the sun's rays warm his face.
A feeling of freedom and power invades him. He’s just laid the first stone of the building he’s planning to extend on all continents.
He’s more than ever determined to wage a battle with the whole world - a pitiless battle without mercy, delivered against a vicious, hidden, crawling, enemy not ignored by all but neglected by all, hiding and rotting what was most beautiful in our society: children, young people, artists, the future.
He walks away under the trees of the long avenue Victor Hugo and takes an adjacent street. As soon as he can, he enters a door behind an elderly lady. He follows her and steps behind her into the elevator.
‘Which floor are you going to Madam?’ he asks politely.
‘The third floor, thank you’.
He presses on number three and helps her out when they arrive.
Then he contines until the sixth. He’s hoped to find a corridor there with maid’s rooms and is not mistaken.
Nobody around!
He takes off his glasses, his blue lenses, his blond wig. He turns his suit jacket inside out which looks like a very casual jacket now. Then he takes from his briefcase a simple navy blue T-shirt. He takes off his shirt which he folds carefully and puts it in his briefcase.
He goes down in the elevator and casually walks through the lobby to the street. He’s breathing better, being himself again, the real Mark, relaxed and not pretending to be a young, ambitious, careerist man.
Mark thinks that he’s very lucky to be able to work at what he wants and to be able to rely as he does on his old best friend Samy.
He feels also pleased to have found a nice, smart and fine financial and legal advisor, which will be an essential tool for the future. But he chose to keep a certain distance and therefore the disguise. This is also a way to protect those around him in case things go wrong. Not really knowing him, not being able to give an exact description seems perhaps exaggerated, but in the end it’s a security for those he involuntarily is involving in his adventure.
The plans are jostling in his head. So many steps to take before revenge. To congratulate himself on what he’s already accomplished and to give himself courage for the future, he decides to walk down the avenue Victor Hugo and calls his friend Samy.
‘Join me at Carette’s, Place du Trocadero. We're going to have an orgy of macaroons and hot chocolate ... Come over. Be my guest...’
‘Don’t you think I'm fat enough already? But, if it's free I'll come... You know me. You know how to talk to my feelings at least.’
Mark is very fond of this tea room, which was founded in 1927 by a couple of pastry chefs, who had created a temple of savory sweets, famous for their macaroons. And for Mark this place is full of good memories and synonymous with luck.
His family always came here before exams or other events to encourage the one concerned, or to celebrate successes and anniversaries. The old-fashioned decoration contributes to Mark's magical place, making it timeless in a way.
‘Always faithful to this place huh?’ Samy asks when he arrives, letting his imposing figure fall into a velvet pillow chair. His slightly unkempt outfit is clashing with the place but Samy doesn’t care.
‘So tell me... What are we celebrating again?’
‘I saw a lawyer to lay the groundwork for the future. But the less you know the better for you... I swear... In fact it was a female lawyer, by the way.’
‘Cute at least or daffy?’
‘Cute that's for sure, and especially surprisingly young. She looks like twenty-five years old, like us, but given her experience and the years of schooling she had to do...Hm, she must be at least thirty.’
‘I can see a gleam in your eyes... a little crush?’
‘No! I will never mix business and sex. Out of the question !’
‘Ok don’t be angry... I just tried. But you tell me nothing and I'm fed up sometimes... Why does it sound like you don’t trust me... It's like that hate and thirst for revenge in you! What triggered it?’
Mark leaned over and lowered his voice to answer him.
‘We're just going to clean up rotten areas that everyone knows about, but no one cares--or at least, no one does anything effective about.
'I decided that enough is enough… The less you know the better and we’re not here for that matter...we have something more pressing to discuss:
'So what flavour for your macaroons?’