Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [30]
At least that’s how Morland explained it.
Internal politics, what a pain in the ass, thinks Berthet, as he steps into a terrifically impersonal neon and stainless steel café.
Inside there are people with that strained look of all departing travelers, and other people who have that strained look of people who aren’t departing travelers but who have nothing better to do than watch the ones who are.
Yes, internal politics is a pain in the ass, thinks Berthet, who doesn’t mind dying in Algiers, Abidjan, or Rome, but not two kilometers from home in an arrondissement where there are nothing but train stations, hospitals, and whores.
In other words, an arrondissement for hypothetical departures to rainy places, incurable diseases, and paid orgasms with spots of melanin on callipygian asses.
Yes, internal politics is a drag.
And Jesus, talk about those train stations! Berthet thinks the Gare de l’Est is even more depressing than the Gare du Nord. The Gare du Nord plays it futurist and Orwellian, but the Gare de l’Est still reeks of the draftees who went off twice in twenty years to get slaughtered on the Eastern fronts.
Furthermore, the paradox is that Berthet has hideouts even The Unit doesn’t know about in a dozen European and African cities, but here in Paris, in the 10th arrondissement— nothing, nada, zilch.
Berthet finally understands, though a bit late, a precept from The Art of Warby Sun Tzu. A book that everyone at The Unit claims to be reading, it’s their bible and the pretext for seminars after Commando Training in Guyana.
Berthet used to think that reading Sun Tzu was a bit of a show-off, a little “We-at-The-Unit-are-philosopher-warriors,” a pose, really.
But now Berthet has to admit that the old Chink was right: “What is essential is to ensure peace in the cities of your nation.” In other words, peace would be a studio known only to himself, equipped with:
clean suits
weapons with no serial numbers
a set of false identity papers
medicine in the bathroom cabinet
some cash
cell phones with local numbers
These studios do exist. The closest is in Delft, between Brussels and Amsterdam. Delft—that sure does Berthet a lot of good.
The road might be a possibility. Straight toward Porte de la Chapelle, the highway to Lille. Yeah, right.
Berthet orders a coffee at the counter. Berthet thinks this over. Berthet understands. The Unit wants him dead to eliminate the source of leaks to the Service. The Unit, once the dirty work has been done, wants to keep its hands clean.
Berthet feels very depressed. If The Unit has decided to do away with him like that, it’s because The Unit must think he’s outdated, old, a loser.
Berthet could call Hélène Bastogne, tell her about having been conned. That wouldn’t do much good, just piss off The Unit. Whatever he does now anyway, he’s definitely out of the game.
Berthet wants to take a piss. Berthet goes up to the first floor of the café. To get into the john, you have to put fifty euro centimes into a kind of piggy bank on the door handle.
Clearly, a homeless bum is waiting for Berthet to go in and for Berthet to leave the door open when he comes out. The stinginess of this café, the bum’s stinginess, the stinginess of internal politics, all this irritates Berthet.
In the world as it was before, you didn’t pay to piss. To accept this is more proof that a submission chip has indeed been implanted in all people born after the oil crisis.
Berthet looks for exact change. Next to him, Berthet feels the bum’s need to piss as pressing as his own. This irritates Berthet even more.
Then Berthet blows his fuse.
Berthet takes out his Glock and breaks the bum’s nose with the