Chapter Six: Conversations parallel.
- And the minister of justice, Rachida! She looks good with his two brothers dealer!
- You say that because she is beur! Incorrigible racist, go!
- Finally, Nicolas tone, he could have chosen a white woman, for crying out loud! He not only takes a wog, what not white at all, but she comes from a family of criminals.
- Shut up, Stephen! You're in no position to lecture us! Your Jean-Marie, it is not entirely clear to him ...
- Redis it a bit it is not clear, Jean-Marie! Head high and hands clean, it is the moral here!
- Clean Hands, my eye, or rather his eye! He was not blind to ogle on the fortunes of the cement ... You know what I'm talking to my guys ...
- gossip, without any evidence, pasqu'on wants to demonize ...
- Anyway, your constituents, we are free cloth ... So!
- A free cloth are you perhaps have to '. But that's no reason to bring in black women and Fatma in the government ...
- Shut up, I tell you. You understand nothing at the opening.
- And why it has not hired a guy free cloth us, I dunno, but knows better than Gollnisch c'grand idiot Kouchner's foreign policy. And Navy, it could have ...
- Being appointed admiral in chief of submarines, no doubt!
- Do not fuck, Jeremy. F'rais you better order a little yellow ... politics makes you thirsty.
The daily debate between Jeremy Duchemin, Sarkozyist more than ever, and Etienne Poitrinard, stalwart defender of the National Front, has just resumed, crescendo, driven as always by reading news items. Today, the dispute started with a snippet quite unusual, page 26 of the Journal of the Centre: the discovery of a package of human intestines in the backyard of a farm Sermages. From surprise to horror and indignation at the vindication of the challenged the police to the stigmatization of small socialist-lax judges, the tone is mounted, each step in anger is accompanied by a glass of pastis. And then the inevitable happened, when Stephen Poitrinard quoted the Minister of Justice ...
Regular customers finally have a show at the extent of their curiosity. Some scream of encouragement: "Go Stephen! Kss kss! - Bite to the eye, Jeremy! You're going to eat this time! "Others giggle and pretend to browse the sports pages of the daily departmental, to give a capacity And they do not, however, a replica of the chicane. Welcome, Guest few expect the general tour, which occur every day as the fateful moment of reconciliation.
At the end of the counter, undisturbed, the eye lost in a dream staff, the old Zigzag regularly throws his glass of Sancerre, in trembling.
Seated at the back of the room, two customers derive a sad thrombin. Jean-Pierre and Thierry Leray Mourlon, came to St. Private bar to share a few secrets, are left to lick their small gulps of beer mats Fritz Special. The publisher grumbles:
- There is no agreement here, as usual!
- Difficult to get a word with these two Weirdoes. But really, it is perhaps no worse. Because of us, the case code, better not to fuss made. The cops already have dug up the hatchet. You know, friend Agnan leaves a strange legacy.
- You mean the full version?
- Not at all! The edition is taking quite a job, but in the long run you will succeed. It makes me désécriture the pain ...
- The désécriture, I have never believed. It a hoax. Ah, if only they could put on hold, their others out there!
- I too thought like you. Until recent days. If the ace of the Parisian cops arrive here is not part of Cluedo ... Thou hast not seen, they were ready to défourailler cons and the pandores adjupète is also failing yesterday afternoon.
- So, what are you doing?
- For now, it bathes. Champagnole, the big boss of the secret service, I prepared for the contract emerged Fumerol and he passed along a small check in exchange ...
- You should
not ... - No, I have no idea désécriture code. So the commissioner and I, there were a series of bizarre clues. He seemed satisfied. It launched its experts on a dozen tracks. In my humble opinion, he put his finger in the eye. As for the actual code, if it exists, I think was pretty shrewd qu'Agnan for désécrire or take her with him to God the Father. Perhaps Jehovah's having fun ... hope they do not erase the Gospels ...
- And that check? Thou hast spoken well of a reward? We could ...
- Top secret, buddy. Finally, not alarmed now, I'm going to turn largely to ex-wives and children Agnan.
- If it is a tad ...
- Oh, it could help the publisher in need, I understood.
- Come tomorrow evening, we will discuss it with friends. I expected a little couscous royal with ... I say, there will be trouble at the counter!
Confidences mezza voce can not continue because the two parties fell from political controversy to the altercation. Jérôme Duchemin has suddenly launched the water jug stamped on the face of Stephen Ricard Poitrinard And the latter responded with a mighty knee into his opponent coucougnettes; collapsing in grief, the unfortunate Duchemin was bitten on the left thigh blood of the intractable Le Pen.
As the keeper of the bar phone firefighters, spectators, suddenly reminded of the requirements of solidarity, around the two combatants. It wipes the skull Poitrinard wet, we try to heal the wounds as best they could. A joker sings the immortal Johnny tube, "The Beatings, yes it hurts ..."
Jean-Pierre and Thierry Leray Mourlon slip away towards the bridge.
Chapter Seven: What a circus in the avenue!
This morning, a chilly wind blowing on the banks of the Loire. Buffeted by gusts, old plane trees in the Avenue du 14 Juillet shed their last leaves. Rare passers along the fronts and try to hide in the corner store. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon hastily step towards the station. The paymaster of the Secretary of State for Sports has given him an appointment in Paris to give him a "substantial additional compensation" as the new Minister Bernard Laporte has learned to appreciate the article that the journalist had spent a month earlier in the preparation of XV of France.
But what happens there in the corner, opposite the garage? The right lane is blocked by two white vans marked "Forensic Science" and five mobile police control vehicles which pass dropper. Along the gantry which supports panels of pre-warning, a strange scaffolding has been installed in the car of a public works vehicle, two men dressed in immaculate regulate the combination of a TV camera. On both sidewalks, employees place a strip of plastic colors. And Commissioner Champagnole directs operations, a walkie-talkie in hand. Her eagle eye can not fail to spot Mourlon
- Here! It's you! What are you doing?
- I go to the station, it is the direction, is not it? And you?
- Operation locus-focus ... In the jargon of the house is Phase 3 of the search index. An employee spotted him up there ...
- Your index is the plate "Downtown" with the arrow, perhaps?
- You do not see anything else?
- pigeon droppings and a scribble on the porch.
- This scribble you call that interests us. They say a tag, now when we are in the wind.
- In the wind, everyone is in the wind this morning ... But what he tells you, this tag?
- You see ... Oh, no? That you're not used.
- I do not know me, or something like Kon Klone, interspersed with letters.
- It Klown, we found a dozen in the streets of Decize, including one on the transformer opposite the offices of EDF
- And then? There were a poster for the circus Zavatta, which has passed through the city there are two or three months, according to my neighbor ...
- Klown with a k, not c!
- What is the relationship with the indices?
- Damn! You've recorded with us, these clues ... You may remember the "circus" ...
- Wait, yes, that was weird ... ...
Feather - Feather in the circus bee, yeah!
- But bees do not have feathers! Neither the clowns.
- It depends on which ...
- It's not all that, I have a train at 9 h 43. I go to Paris. Just today, I'll be back tonight. You let me ...
- Of course! Remember that you remain available.
- At your orders, whatever!
Commissioner Champagnole fattening his megaphone and shouted: "Priority Passage for this individual here. Open the dam! "While
Mourlon press the pace towards the bridge Aron, two grannies leaning to comment on their window that order their martial sonotone amplified:
- You think they will release the dam, EVEN Fernande? It will cause the flood, with c'qu'est fallen in recent days ...
- Oh, you never know with these people's movies. They have many ways.
- But it's not cinema, is written on their trucks "Police".
- It's not real. Me I immediately saw qu'c'était film on TV. Here, EVEN Ginette big here, Cui nouaires's eye, I saw the aut 'souair TF1. How then qu'ys'appelle? Tell me ...
- You talking nonsense neighbor! The police is the police and the TV is on TV.
On the train to pass the time, Jean-Pierre Mourlon is "cinema". Elbows on the shelf in front of his chair, he reads the list of pseudo-evidence he provided to police and establishes several drafts of screenplays for investigators. So many action films with stunts, chases, bombs, helicopters spewing fire, without forgetting the dream creatures responsible for diverting the super-cop Playboy - it's fun to imagine Champagnole 007 - its task of his ministry, his sacred mission, the Holy Grail-Zero-Zero ...
Commissioner intrepid hurtling through the Morvan hills to reach the geographic center of the eurozone, Montreuillon or in the vicinity, he through without any damage a circle of fire made of straw bales set on fire by angry peasants, arrives at a social gathering where Ronnie McDonald clown hands him a cocktail that was prepared for the sweet Elvira woe! The cocktail is poisonous, it contains particles of cobalt and a red jumper wins behind him lifeless to the commissioner a palace where the queen bee plumed feather revives him by beating vigorously with a sprig of arbutus c ' is then that the old Nieztsche, recognizable by its long white whiskers, gets to dance with the Earl of Mercy to the sound of banjos and fiddles with a country band Morvan. The sun rises, it's Wednesday morning, as children do not school and play with the teddy bear Barzy. Commissioner Champagnole 007 awakens in Saint-Malo in the arms of a siren suddenly sees it on the dresser, the model of the schooner Unicorn, he runs, runs, runs, stumbles, knocking the small boat into matchsticks including all the masts break, will reduce sulfur powder, ignited, and ten small confetti fly; on each is written the simple word "zero" ... Then
Mourlon out his dream. The sound of the train announcement that Paris is only three minutes and the driver thank, on behalf of the station, 'ladies and gentlemen passengers, wish them a good day and hope they will soon return and they on the Paris-Nevers, Clermont-Ferrand.
****
Chapter Eight: Ya Mustapha!
- Why the casbah was burned, my zami?
- Why the casbah was burned?
- Pasque fatma the fire was put my zami,
- fatma the Pasque has put the fire ... The
drunken voice of Jean-Pierre Mourlon stimulus, sentence by sentence, this silly jingle. The chorus resumed.
Seated around a steaming couscous, the four Musketeers take inventory of exotic songs they know, an exoticism that is more folklore than real military knowledge of North African music. "Let me couscous, baby, Pan-Pan arbi, Darling I love you baby I adore you, We are the Africans who come a long way, Hey, there goes the rod, Mom, what that a virginity ... "Jean-Paul Mourlon find the directory that made him the life and soul train winter evenings in the small European community, there in the foothills of the Atlas, while teaching the language Shakespeare's son of the fellah. The other three commensal
are: first the master of the house, Thierry Leray, director of the Imagination Workshop, responsible for many months of editing the complete works of Agnan Fumerol on his left his accomplice factor Popaul Ragot, revolutionary hardliner strapped Revolution and a great lover of liquor and witticisms, on the other hand, the computer scientist emeritus Alexis Julien, Leray was able to disconnect its computers for a few hours.
front of each guest, a plate loaded bone, sauce and too few grains of semolina, awaiting the next load. Six bottles of Mascara and gray Boulaouane are lying in a basket, or nearly empty, too, they wait for assistance. A strong smell of burning herbs - and smoking - exists in the room.
While opening a new bottle, Jean-Pierre Mourlon sings an old military air, accompanied by the trumpet nasal Popaul:
"Blowin 'the Bat' d'Af 'passing / Ahoy those in the class / A we broads / They retrouv'ra / When the class / When the class will go ... "Before
Mourlon started its round of singing, conversation rolled over all the concerns of the quartet: the tour insane factor, the inertia of printers, the discovery of a pile of human intestines in a cottage Morvan, the new championship victory Snider, the future of cable TV network that disrupts traffic in the Faubourg Saint-Privé, the collapse of a tower within the old castle, the price of a baguette, with gasoline, global economic conditions, the latest models of Dell and Acer and the auction caps fire Pinochet ...
And rantings of songs, the four accomplices have come inevitably to the désécriture, the mysterious legacy of their former master Fumerol.
- Fumerol invented nothing. He adapted. In computing, code zero-zero is the virus. It's been ages since the hackers of all countries have introduced worms, earthworms if you prefer, in the machines they want to wreck. This desecration of the most complex software. And the Trojan, it's even more vicious.
- Another feat of Odysseus ventured factor. The computer
shrugs, smooth, and resumed his goatee:
- So, since the internet is accessible to everyone, you understand. But it was the parade: antivirus, firewall. My buddy Norton, for example. The difficulty is that the virus can be developed only after the virus ... You see, it's like the struggle of labs doping control against those who invent new products, obviously undetectable for a year or two ...
Alexis Juliénas strike her audience with a lengthy presentation full of Anglicisms, Netsky, boots, spyware, rolling stones, misterbeane.
- Viruses Hackers Are your icosahedral, helical or wrapped, inquires Mourlon, cheeky?
- You do not understand anything and you make fun of my ...
- Exactly. This is because your virus are too technical they do not match the genius of Fumerol. Him, he clears without intervention mathematics. No need to bytes, megabytes and software. Fumerol him ...
- Fumerol, he might be seated in all the sciences, he did I tell you that adapting.
- I do not disagree, my dear. But its source was not the computer, it was alchemy. In his library, he has left a radius Esoteric treaties. And when he showed me around the room Olga-Olby he told me ...
- The code zero-zero, the demand factor?
- Not quite, just a few things, but I did not get it. So ...
- So children, it is going to have to hunt occurs Leray. But before squirming their brains, let ... A ladle of couscous and a side of each lamb.
- Just a ball, to make you happy. Because, me, my belly full.
- Two chickpeas, I leave a little room for dessert. Do you mind?
- Lightweight, there is light your couscous. It is you who prepared or the caterer?
- Both, sir!
And the great food again, interspersed at regular intervals, new considerations désécriture.
*****
Chapter Nine: The lonely musings of a glutton.
slouched on a pile of cushions, Jean-Pierre Mourlon draws short puffs of his pipe kief. Sated, a little drunk, legs trembling, eyes half closed, he wanders off the remaining bit of conscience. The smell of couscous, smoke ... He'll see you there. There, in the Maghreb. The sun. The range of Bejaia. Prawns cooked on the coals. Constantine, the gorges of Rummel, the Place de la Breccia, the suspension bridge, street vendors, the smell of kebabs, the pastries with honey. Spices, red powder, saffron, brown, green ... The sheep tied to a pole and stuffed with fragrant herbs, destined for an upcoming barbecue. The prickly pears at the end of their rackets. Excursions to the oasis. Touggourt and its sea of palm trees. El Oued and its market, its carpets, its potters. The walls of Ghardaia. Malika's black eyes, mats Naima, jewelry knock Fawzia, dresses multicolored Khadra dancer ... A Kabyle Algeria postcards. Wonderful memories. Other, less pleasant, spring floods, water shortages for the rest of the year, the cholera epidemic in douars slums around the cities, police brutality, the Colonels ... The The omnipresence of the FLN's portraits rais ... The Boumediene "volunteers" of the Agrarian Revolution ... and mismanagement of major projects ... The reporter emits
sigh on sigh.
The meal was certainly too generous. Too wet, too. Mourlon feel heaviness between the stomach and pylorus. Digestion is his weak point since few months. Should be consulted. Avoid excess. But tonight ...
A new suction pipe in kief. The sarabande reveries resumed. More pictures sunny. The Calanques of Cassis. The shores of Port-Cros. The ocher rocks Cape Canaille. A trip on a catamaran with the Marseillaise in laughter, how it is named, the small Jewish? Esther? Judith? Sarah? Finally, a Biblical name. In the distance, dolphins disappearing in a shower of foam. And suddenly, looming behind the rocks of the island claims Riou, the giant car ferry that almost rip the boat.
- There is no longer the car ferry. The Cyrnos has been sold, may be scrapped. Cyrnos, Cyrn, Kyrnéa, like it is one of evidence found on a playing card. A tarot card, that's why I wanted to Marseille. Kyrnéa, it tells me something ... Yes, a review Corsican autonomist or regionalist. Does Fumerol would not ...? There I must have the heart net. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon can not wait. He writes feverishly phone number of his friend Philip Tamburini.
- Ring! Ta ta ta ta ta tatsoin-te-èreuh!
... The first two bars of the Marseillaise suddenly resonate in the humble remains that the retired banker occupies with his wife beside the Biguglia, a few miles south of Bastia.
- Who? Who? Who dares to wake up to an hour if ...?
- is Jean-Pierre!
- But you will not, no! Three hours and fifteen minutes. This is not the time to sleep with you? You, you, you could m'filer a blow to the heart ... So ...
- So here it is. Kyrnéa, it means ...
- A kir is a white-currants, you know the good.
- I have not said Kir, I said Kyrnéa. KYR.N.
- Ben is a former name of Corsica. In Greek, I think.
- Thank you, Filou! That's c'que j'm'étais said. Agnan left us the true index. It's your house that leads us.
- My Home? Why? First, what are you talking about this poor Agnan? He is dead, peace to his ashes!
- Marseille tarot, Kyrnéa, the Greeks, the key code.
- What key? Listen, Jean-Pierre, stop your mysteries. Or do I hang up. Already qu'Anghjula Maria makes me eyes revolver. Because she wants to sleep. You understand?
Mourlon briefly recounts the quest of the code zero-zero, carried away by his enthusiasm, he developed associations of ideas which led to a couscous a little heavy on car ferry Cyrnos, through southern Algeria, the creeks of Cassis, Fawzia with long braids, Sarah sailor and leaping dolphins, leading in Corsica, where he has landed in the shortest possible time.
- You expect, Filou! In two or three days time to arrange ... But, you listen, eh?
A regular snoring shakes the listener.
****
Chapter Ten: The police did not give weapons.
The alarm of the garbage truck stutters his complaints treble in the alley. It is still dark and a light rain, cold, vertical, continuous hammering the roof. Jean-Pierre Mourlon emerges from a restless sleep. He spends his beard over the duvet, extends an arm, another extension, press the alarm clock: once, the melodious voice of the journalist of service lists the odds horse. The reporter hesitated
: Will it rise or sink back into the arms of Morpheus (for want of arms at its disposal more concrete)?
- ... no surprise in the Criterium of Five Years, our favorites are the 9 Orlando Furioso, 17 Offshore 7, OK Coral, and 4 Oh Daniella, 11, Ortolan outsider ... And now our usual topic this morning at the Elysee today, President
Sar ... - Oh, no! We invaded this one!
one angry gesture, Mourlon disconnected his telephone, he hustles all the bric-a-brac that clutters her bedside table, a glass half full of cold tea, two pairs of glasses, cotton swabs, a watch, two novels of Joel Lenoir, a videotape, a crumpled sock, three tissues, a picture of Agnan Fumerol and some dust bunnies.
- Okay, I need to get up. The trip to prepare. Luggage again, airfare, train, boat, what?
While the reporter pulls the zipper of a bag a little too crowded, the doorbell rang input.
On the threshold, the gendarmette De Beers takes shelter from the rain with the briefcase she brandished over his head.
- A call to the police, sir Mourlon. It seems quite urgent. CWO seemed preoccupied.
- I will not mince words, my dear! Give me the key. Otherwise, he'll cook you ... It is you who see.
CWO Caillac pacing up and down his office. Nervous, angry, determined. His mustache quivered at each of its sentences.
- I had confidence in you. And that's handyman Champagnole you deliver your clues ...
- But ...
- No objection, please. You have pulled the rug out from under. And all this in hopes of getting a small windfall Champagnole ... that will not pay you, you can be sure!
- But ...
- You know evil, these guys from the secret police. They have rolled, and smarter than you. In the gendarmerie, was of honor. We respect their word. Them, they are accustomed to dirty tricks, the traps, at low maneuvers. Remember the Rainbow Warrior? And Ben Barka Case? With us, not that ...
- The hut burned down, maybe ...
- this was different, the gus were on duty, the responsibility of the prefect. You're not going to lecture me. So, I recapitulate: Champagnole promises a large sum in exchange for clues, you pretend to rummage through the papers of Fumerol, you deliver a dozen forms, hollow taradiddles, you sign a contract, they pretend to leave yourself happy and you think you have fooled. A fool, my dear. Because they came in your absence ...
- They came back?
- Yes, for your banquet at Leray. I put a policeman on duty in the attic of your neighbor. And we put some microphones.
- Champagnole and his minions have discovered ...
- Not all! One remained in the fountain pen with which you signed the alleged contract ... a contract they do not comply, you can be assured. Their methods of thugs, I know, me ... So you thought the ride. Champagnole did not believe for a moment your clues. He did not fall the last downpour. During his search at night, he made no sound, it left no trace. I recognize that in that area, he and his teammates, they are virtuosos.
Caillac softens tone; a finger, brush mustache.
- If I am relying on the last record, he would have found a chemical formula, or something of that ilk, with bromide and a couple of mysterious ingredients. Is that what you tell me ...
- I have no idea
- In this case, I will appeal to the usual method, is not it?
- What is ... ?
- past, talk to a suspect, the court had recourse to the Issue.
And then the m sisters have evolved, yet we must be efficient, so my colleague, Constable Lecogneur occasionally uses his formidable hairy paw to help the truth to come out of ...
- You no right!
- And you, are you sure that you are authorized to sell a state secret, or rather to deceive the national police with false leads? In fact, since we entered France after, with the presidential election, EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE ...
Two hours later, after having tasted his flesh and bones in the charms of the question gendarmesque, Jean-Pierre Mourlon nervously leaves the office of Chief Warrant Officer Caillac. "Without the knowledge of his own accord", to quote the famous words popularized by Richard the conqueror of the peaks, he abandoned his inquisitors new vital clues, a chemical formula that his mind full of resources has had time to concoct between two slaps.
Caillac and his company will now practice the game of small alchemist mixing potassium bromide, the Charolais bull horn crushed by a full moon night, the pistils of marigolds, the heels and essence of water lying arthame St. Aré blessed by a monk of San Bernardino. Then they try to désécrire all tags that disfigure the walls of Decize ... and they can communicate their revenue to all gendarmerie metropolitan and overseas. Glory! Promises for advancement! Chief Warrant Officer Lieutenant already sees itself, and why not? Lieutenant-Colonel or Colonel ... ...
- And the minister of justice, Rachida! She looks good with his two brothers dealer!
- You say that because she is beur! Incorrigible racist, go!
- Finally, Nicolas tone, he could have chosen a white woman, for crying out loud! He not only takes a wog, what not white at all, but she comes from a family of criminals.
- Shut up, Stephen! You're in no position to lecture us! Your Jean-Marie, it is not entirely clear to him ...
- Redis it a bit it is not clear, Jean-Marie! Head high and hands clean, it is the moral here!
- Clean Hands, my eye, or rather his eye! He was not blind to ogle on the fortunes of the cement ... You know what I'm talking to my guys ...
- gossip, without any evidence, pasqu'on wants to demonize ...
- Anyway, your constituents, we are free cloth ... So!
- A free cloth are you perhaps have to '. But that's no reason to bring in black women and Fatma in the government ...
- Shut up, I tell you. You understand nothing at the opening.
- And why it has not hired a guy free cloth us, I dunno, but knows better than Gollnisch c'grand idiot Kouchner's foreign policy. And Navy, it could have ...
- Being appointed admiral in chief of submarines, no doubt!
- Do not fuck, Jeremy. F'rais you better order a little yellow ... politics makes you thirsty.
The daily debate between Jeremy Duchemin, Sarkozyist more than ever, and Etienne Poitrinard, stalwart defender of the National Front, has just resumed, crescendo, driven as always by reading news items. Today, the dispute started with a snippet quite unusual, page 26 of the Journal of the Centre: the discovery of a package of human intestines in the backyard of a farm Sermages. From surprise to horror and indignation at the vindication of the challenged the police to the stigmatization of small socialist-lax judges, the tone is mounted, each step in anger is accompanied by a glass of pastis. And then the inevitable happened, when Stephen Poitrinard quoted the Minister of Justice ...
Regular customers finally have a show at the extent of their curiosity. Some scream of encouragement: "Go Stephen! Kss kss! - Bite to the eye, Jeremy! You're going to eat this time! "Others giggle and pretend to browse the sports pages of the daily departmental, to give a capacity And they do not, however, a replica of the chicane. Welcome, Guest few expect the general tour, which occur every day as the fateful moment of reconciliation.
At the end of the counter, undisturbed, the eye lost in a dream staff, the old Zigzag regularly throws his glass of Sancerre, in trembling.
Seated at the back of the room, two customers derive a sad thrombin. Jean-Pierre and Thierry Leray Mourlon, came to St. Private bar to share a few secrets, are left to lick their small gulps of beer mats Fritz Special. The publisher grumbles:
- There is no agreement here, as usual!
- Difficult to get a word with these two Weirdoes. But really, it is perhaps no worse. Because of us, the case code, better not to fuss made. The cops already have dug up the hatchet. You know, friend Agnan leaves a strange legacy.
- You mean the full version?
- Not at all! The edition is taking quite a job, but in the long run you will succeed. It makes me désécriture the pain ...
- The désécriture, I have never believed. It a hoax. Ah, if only they could put on hold, their others out there!
- I too thought like you. Until recent days. If the ace of the Parisian cops arrive here is not part of Cluedo ... Thou hast not seen, they were ready to défourailler cons and the pandores adjupète is also failing yesterday afternoon.
- So, what are you doing?
- For now, it bathes. Champagnole, the big boss of the secret service, I prepared for the contract emerged Fumerol and he passed along a small check in exchange ...
- You should
not ... - No, I have no idea désécriture code. So the commissioner and I, there were a series of bizarre clues. He seemed satisfied. It launched its experts on a dozen tracks. In my humble opinion, he put his finger in the eye. As for the actual code, if it exists, I think was pretty shrewd qu'Agnan for désécrire or take her with him to God the Father. Perhaps Jehovah's having fun ... hope they do not erase the Gospels ...
- And that check? Thou hast spoken well of a reward? We could ...
- Top secret, buddy. Finally, not alarmed now, I'm going to turn largely to ex-wives and children Agnan.
- If it is a tad ...
- Oh, it could help the publisher in need, I understood.
- Come tomorrow evening, we will discuss it with friends. I expected a little couscous royal with ... I say, there will be trouble at the counter!
Confidences mezza voce can not continue because the two parties fell from political controversy to the altercation. Jérôme Duchemin has suddenly launched the water jug stamped on the face of Stephen Ricard Poitrinard And the latter responded with a mighty knee into his opponent coucougnettes; collapsing in grief, the unfortunate Duchemin was bitten on the left thigh blood of the intractable Le Pen.
As the keeper of the bar phone firefighters, spectators, suddenly reminded of the requirements of solidarity, around the two combatants. It wipes the skull Poitrinard wet, we try to heal the wounds as best they could. A joker sings the immortal Johnny tube, "The Beatings, yes it hurts ..."
Jean-Pierre and Thierry Leray Mourlon slip away towards the bridge.
Chapter Seven: What a circus in the avenue!
This morning, a chilly wind blowing on the banks of the Loire. Buffeted by gusts, old plane trees in the Avenue du 14 Juillet shed their last leaves. Rare passers along the fronts and try to hide in the corner store. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon hastily step towards the station. The paymaster of the Secretary of State for Sports has given him an appointment in Paris to give him a "substantial additional compensation" as the new Minister Bernard Laporte has learned to appreciate the article that the journalist had spent a month earlier in the preparation of XV of France.
But what happens there in the corner, opposite the garage? The right lane is blocked by two white vans marked "Forensic Science" and five mobile police control vehicles which pass dropper. Along the gantry which supports panels of pre-warning, a strange scaffolding has been installed in the car of a public works vehicle, two men dressed in immaculate regulate the combination of a TV camera. On both sidewalks, employees place a strip of plastic colors. And Commissioner Champagnole directs operations, a walkie-talkie in hand. Her eagle eye can not fail to spot Mourlon
- Here! It's you! What are you doing?
- I go to the station, it is the direction, is not it? And you?
- Operation locus-focus ... In the jargon of the house is Phase 3 of the search index. An employee spotted him up there ...
- Your index is the plate "Downtown" with the arrow, perhaps?
- You do not see anything else?
- pigeon droppings and a scribble on the porch.
- This scribble you call that interests us. They say a tag, now when we are in the wind.
- In the wind, everyone is in the wind this morning ... But what he tells you, this tag?
- You see ... Oh, no? That you're not used.
- I do not know me, or something like Kon Klone, interspersed with letters.
- It Klown, we found a dozen in the streets of Decize, including one on the transformer opposite the offices of EDF
- And then? There were a poster for the circus Zavatta, which has passed through the city there are two or three months, according to my neighbor ...
- Klown with a k, not c!
- What is the relationship with the indices?
- Damn! You've recorded with us, these clues ... You may remember the "circus" ...
- Wait, yes, that was weird ... ...
Feather - Feather in the circus bee, yeah!
- But bees do not have feathers! Neither the clowns.
- It depends on which ...
- It's not all that, I have a train at 9 h 43. I go to Paris. Just today, I'll be back tonight. You let me ...
- Of course! Remember that you remain available.
- At your orders, whatever!
Commissioner Champagnole fattening his megaphone and shouted: "Priority Passage for this individual here. Open the dam! "While
Mourlon press the pace towards the bridge Aron, two grannies leaning to comment on their window that order their martial sonotone amplified:
- You think they will release the dam, EVEN Fernande? It will cause the flood, with c'qu'est fallen in recent days ...
- Oh, you never know with these people's movies. They have many ways.
- But it's not cinema, is written on their trucks "Police".
- It's not real. Me I immediately saw qu'c'était film on TV. Here, EVEN Ginette big here, Cui nouaires's eye, I saw the aut 'souair TF1. How then qu'ys'appelle? Tell me ...
- You talking nonsense neighbor! The police is the police and the TV is on TV.
On the train to pass the time, Jean-Pierre Mourlon is "cinema". Elbows on the shelf in front of his chair, he reads the list of pseudo-evidence he provided to police and establishes several drafts of screenplays for investigators. So many action films with stunts, chases, bombs, helicopters spewing fire, without forgetting the dream creatures responsible for diverting the super-cop Playboy - it's fun to imagine Champagnole 007 - its task of his ministry, his sacred mission, the Holy Grail-Zero-Zero ...
Commissioner intrepid hurtling through the Morvan hills to reach the geographic center of the eurozone, Montreuillon or in the vicinity, he through without any damage a circle of fire made of straw bales set on fire by angry peasants, arrives at a social gathering where Ronnie McDonald clown hands him a cocktail that was prepared for the sweet Elvira woe! The cocktail is poisonous, it contains particles of cobalt and a red jumper wins behind him lifeless to the commissioner a palace where the queen bee plumed feather revives him by beating vigorously with a sprig of arbutus c ' is then that the old Nieztsche, recognizable by its long white whiskers, gets to dance with the Earl of Mercy to the sound of banjos and fiddles with a country band Morvan. The sun rises, it's Wednesday morning, as children do not school and play with the teddy bear Barzy. Commissioner Champagnole 007 awakens in Saint-Malo in the arms of a siren suddenly sees it on the dresser, the model of the schooner Unicorn, he runs, runs, runs, stumbles, knocking the small boat into matchsticks including all the masts break, will reduce sulfur powder, ignited, and ten small confetti fly; on each is written the simple word "zero" ... Then
Mourlon out his dream. The sound of the train announcement that Paris is only three minutes and the driver thank, on behalf of the station, 'ladies and gentlemen passengers, wish them a good day and hope they will soon return and they on the Paris-Nevers, Clermont-Ferrand.
****
Chapter Eight: Ya Mustapha!
- Why the casbah was burned, my zami?
- Why the casbah was burned?
- Pasque fatma the fire was put my zami,
- fatma the Pasque has put the fire ... The
drunken voice of Jean-Pierre Mourlon stimulus, sentence by sentence, this silly jingle. The chorus resumed.
Seated around a steaming couscous, the four Musketeers take inventory of exotic songs they know, an exoticism that is more folklore than real military knowledge of North African music. "Let me couscous, baby, Pan-Pan arbi, Darling I love you baby I adore you, We are the Africans who come a long way, Hey, there goes the rod, Mom, what that a virginity ... "Jean-Paul Mourlon find the directory that made him the life and soul train winter evenings in the small European community, there in the foothills of the Atlas, while teaching the language Shakespeare's son of the fellah. The other three commensal
are: first the master of the house, Thierry Leray, director of the Imagination Workshop, responsible for many months of editing the complete works of Agnan Fumerol on his left his accomplice factor Popaul Ragot, revolutionary hardliner strapped Revolution and a great lover of liquor and witticisms, on the other hand, the computer scientist emeritus Alexis Julien, Leray was able to disconnect its computers for a few hours.
front of each guest, a plate loaded bone, sauce and too few grains of semolina, awaiting the next load. Six bottles of Mascara and gray Boulaouane are lying in a basket, or nearly empty, too, they wait for assistance. A strong smell of burning herbs - and smoking - exists in the room.
While opening a new bottle, Jean-Pierre Mourlon sings an old military air, accompanied by the trumpet nasal Popaul:
"Blowin 'the Bat' d'Af 'passing / Ahoy those in the class / A we broads / They retrouv'ra / When the class / When the class will go ... "Before
Mourlon started its round of singing, conversation rolled over all the concerns of the quartet: the tour insane factor, the inertia of printers, the discovery of a pile of human intestines in a cottage Morvan, the new championship victory Snider, the future of cable TV network that disrupts traffic in the Faubourg Saint-Privé, the collapse of a tower within the old castle, the price of a baguette, with gasoline, global economic conditions, the latest models of Dell and Acer and the auction caps fire Pinochet ...
And rantings of songs, the four accomplices have come inevitably to the désécriture, the mysterious legacy of their former master Fumerol.
- Fumerol invented nothing. He adapted. In computing, code zero-zero is the virus. It's been ages since the hackers of all countries have introduced worms, earthworms if you prefer, in the machines they want to wreck. This desecration of the most complex software. And the Trojan, it's even more vicious.
- Another feat of Odysseus ventured factor. The computer
shrugs, smooth, and resumed his goatee:
- So, since the internet is accessible to everyone, you understand. But it was the parade: antivirus, firewall. My buddy Norton, for example. The difficulty is that the virus can be developed only after the virus ... You see, it's like the struggle of labs doping control against those who invent new products, obviously undetectable for a year or two ...
Alexis Juliénas strike her audience with a lengthy presentation full of Anglicisms, Netsky, boots, spyware, rolling stones, misterbeane.
- Viruses Hackers Are your icosahedral, helical or wrapped, inquires Mourlon, cheeky?
- You do not understand anything and you make fun of my ...
- Exactly. This is because your virus are too technical they do not match the genius of Fumerol. Him, he clears without intervention mathematics. No need to bytes, megabytes and software. Fumerol him ...
- Fumerol, he might be seated in all the sciences, he did I tell you that adapting.
- I do not disagree, my dear. But its source was not the computer, it was alchemy. In his library, he has left a radius Esoteric treaties. And when he showed me around the room Olga-Olby he told me ...
- The code zero-zero, the demand factor?
- Not quite, just a few things, but I did not get it. So ...
- So children, it is going to have to hunt occurs Leray. But before squirming their brains, let ... A ladle of couscous and a side of each lamb.
- Just a ball, to make you happy. Because, me, my belly full.
- Two chickpeas, I leave a little room for dessert. Do you mind?
- Lightweight, there is light your couscous. It is you who prepared or the caterer?
- Both, sir!
And the great food again, interspersed at regular intervals, new considerations désécriture.
*****
Chapter Nine: The lonely musings of a glutton.
slouched on a pile of cushions, Jean-Pierre Mourlon draws short puffs of his pipe kief. Sated, a little drunk, legs trembling, eyes half closed, he wanders off the remaining bit of conscience. The smell of couscous, smoke ... He'll see you there. There, in the Maghreb. The sun. The range of Bejaia. Prawns cooked on the coals. Constantine, the gorges of Rummel, the Place de la Breccia, the suspension bridge, street vendors, the smell of kebabs, the pastries with honey. Spices, red powder, saffron, brown, green ... The sheep tied to a pole and stuffed with fragrant herbs, destined for an upcoming barbecue. The prickly pears at the end of their rackets. Excursions to the oasis. Touggourt and its sea of palm trees. El Oued and its market, its carpets, its potters. The walls of Ghardaia. Malika's black eyes, mats Naima, jewelry knock Fawzia, dresses multicolored Khadra dancer ... A Kabyle Algeria postcards. Wonderful memories. Other, less pleasant, spring floods, water shortages for the rest of the year, the cholera epidemic in douars slums around the cities, police brutality, the Colonels ... The The omnipresence of the FLN's portraits rais ... The Boumediene "volunteers" of the Agrarian Revolution ... and mismanagement of major projects ... The reporter emits
sigh on sigh.
The meal was certainly too generous. Too wet, too. Mourlon feel heaviness between the stomach and pylorus. Digestion is his weak point since few months. Should be consulted. Avoid excess. But tonight ...
A new suction pipe in kief. The sarabande reveries resumed. More pictures sunny. The Calanques of Cassis. The shores of Port-Cros. The ocher rocks Cape Canaille. A trip on a catamaran with the Marseillaise in laughter, how it is named, the small Jewish? Esther? Judith? Sarah? Finally, a Biblical name. In the distance, dolphins disappearing in a shower of foam. And suddenly, looming behind the rocks of the island claims Riou, the giant car ferry that almost rip the boat.
- There is no longer the car ferry. The Cyrnos has been sold, may be scrapped. Cyrnos, Cyrn, Kyrnéa, like it is one of evidence found on a playing card. A tarot card, that's why I wanted to Marseille. Kyrnéa, it tells me something ... Yes, a review Corsican autonomist or regionalist. Does Fumerol would not ...? There I must have the heart net. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon can not wait. He writes feverishly phone number of his friend Philip Tamburini.
- Ring! Ta ta ta ta ta tatsoin-te-èreuh!
... The first two bars of the Marseillaise suddenly resonate in the humble remains that the retired banker occupies with his wife beside the Biguglia, a few miles south of Bastia.
- Who? Who? Who dares to wake up to an hour if ...?
- is Jean-Pierre!
- But you will not, no! Three hours and fifteen minutes. This is not the time to sleep with you? You, you, you could m'filer a blow to the heart ... So ...
- So here it is. Kyrnéa, it means ...
- A kir is a white-currants, you know the good.
- I have not said Kir, I said Kyrnéa. KYR.N.
- Ben is a former name of Corsica. In Greek, I think.
- Thank you, Filou! That's c'que j'm'étais said. Agnan left us the true index. It's your house that leads us.
- My Home? Why? First, what are you talking about this poor Agnan? He is dead, peace to his ashes!
- Marseille tarot, Kyrnéa, the Greeks, the key code.
- What key? Listen, Jean-Pierre, stop your mysteries. Or do I hang up. Already qu'Anghjula Maria makes me eyes revolver. Because she wants to sleep. You understand?
Mourlon briefly recounts the quest of the code zero-zero, carried away by his enthusiasm, he developed associations of ideas which led to a couscous a little heavy on car ferry Cyrnos, through southern Algeria, the creeks of Cassis, Fawzia with long braids, Sarah sailor and leaping dolphins, leading in Corsica, where he has landed in the shortest possible time.
- You expect, Filou! In two or three days time to arrange ... But, you listen, eh?
A regular snoring shakes the listener.
****
Chapter Ten: The police did not give weapons.
The alarm of the garbage truck stutters his complaints treble in the alley. It is still dark and a light rain, cold, vertical, continuous hammering the roof. Jean-Pierre Mourlon emerges from a restless sleep. He spends his beard over the duvet, extends an arm, another extension, press the alarm clock: once, the melodious voice of the journalist of service lists the odds horse. The reporter hesitated
: Will it rise or sink back into the arms of Morpheus (for want of arms at its disposal more concrete)?
- ... no surprise in the Criterium of Five Years, our favorites are the 9 Orlando Furioso, 17 Offshore 7, OK Coral, and 4 Oh Daniella, 11, Ortolan outsider ... And now our usual topic this morning at the Elysee today, President
Sar ... - Oh, no! We invaded this one!
one angry gesture, Mourlon disconnected his telephone, he hustles all the bric-a-brac that clutters her bedside table, a glass half full of cold tea, two pairs of glasses, cotton swabs, a watch, two novels of Joel Lenoir, a videotape, a crumpled sock, three tissues, a picture of Agnan Fumerol and some dust bunnies.
- Okay, I need to get up. The trip to prepare. Luggage again, airfare, train, boat, what?
While the reporter pulls the zipper of a bag a little too crowded, the doorbell rang input.
On the threshold, the gendarmette De Beers takes shelter from the rain with the briefcase she brandished over his head.
- A call to the police, sir Mourlon. It seems quite urgent. CWO seemed preoccupied.
- I will not mince words, my dear! Give me the key. Otherwise, he'll cook you ... It is you who see.
CWO Caillac pacing up and down his office. Nervous, angry, determined. His mustache quivered at each of its sentences.
- I had confidence in you. And that's handyman Champagnole you deliver your clues ...
- But ...
- No objection, please. You have pulled the rug out from under. And all this in hopes of getting a small windfall Champagnole ... that will not pay you, you can be sure!
- But ...
- You know evil, these guys from the secret police. They have rolled, and smarter than you. In the gendarmerie, was of honor. We respect their word. Them, they are accustomed to dirty tricks, the traps, at low maneuvers. Remember the Rainbow Warrior? And Ben Barka Case? With us, not that ...
- The hut burned down, maybe ...
- this was different, the gus were on duty, the responsibility of the prefect. You're not going to lecture me. So, I recapitulate: Champagnole promises a large sum in exchange for clues, you pretend to rummage through the papers of Fumerol, you deliver a dozen forms, hollow taradiddles, you sign a contract, they pretend to leave yourself happy and you think you have fooled. A fool, my dear. Because they came in your absence ...
- They came back?
- Yes, for your banquet at Leray. I put a policeman on duty in the attic of your neighbor. And we put some microphones.
- Champagnole and his minions have discovered ...
- Not all! One remained in the fountain pen with which you signed the alleged contract ... a contract they do not comply, you can be assured. Their methods of thugs, I know, me ... So you thought the ride. Champagnole did not believe for a moment your clues. He did not fall the last downpour. During his search at night, he made no sound, it left no trace. I recognize that in that area, he and his teammates, they are virtuosos.
Caillac softens tone; a finger, brush mustache.
- If I am relying on the last record, he would have found a chemical formula, or something of that ilk, with bromide and a couple of mysterious ingredients. Is that what you tell me ...
- I have no idea
- In this case, I will appeal to the usual method, is not it?
- What is ... ?
- past, talk to a suspect, the court had recourse to the Issue.
And then the m sisters have evolved, yet we must be efficient, so my colleague, Constable Lecogneur occasionally uses his formidable hairy paw to help the truth to come out of ...
- You no right!
- And you, are you sure that you are authorized to sell a state secret, or rather to deceive the national police with false leads? In fact, since we entered France after, with the presidential election, EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE ...
Two hours later, after having tasted his flesh and bones in the charms of the question gendarmesque, Jean-Pierre Mourlon nervously leaves the office of Chief Warrant Officer Caillac. "Without the knowledge of his own accord", to quote the famous words popularized by Richard the conqueror of the peaks, he abandoned his inquisitors new vital clues, a chemical formula that his mind full of resources has had time to concoct between two slaps.
Caillac and his company will now practice the game of small alchemist mixing potassium bromide, the Charolais bull horn crushed by a full moon night, the pistils of marigolds, the heels and essence of water lying arthame St. Aré blessed by a monk of San Bernardino. Then they try to désécrire all tags that disfigure the walls of Decize ... and they can communicate their revenue to all gendarmerie metropolitan and overseas. Glory! Promises for advancement! Chief Warrant Officer Lieutenant already sees itself, and why not? Lieutenant-Colonel or Colonel ... ...
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