Free The Man Who Risked It All by Laurent Gounelle Page B

there’s no hurry.”
    He began to fidget in his chair, wiping his hands, which were probably damp, on his trousers. Long seconds went by, seeming like hours, but still he could find nothing to say. I felt mounting embarrassment submerge him. He must hate me.
    “Right,” I broke in, to put an end to his torture. “I’m going to tell you why I’m asking you this question. The vacancy is in a small company whose accountant has resigned. He had built up so many days off that he didn’t have to give notice. He left overnight. There is nobody in the company who can train his successor. If you take the job, you will have to manage on your own, going through his papers and his computer files. If you’re not really independent, there’s a risk it will turn into a nightmare for you, and it is my duty not to put you in such a situation. I’m not trying to trap you; I’m just trying to ascertain if you would be up to the task that needs to be done. From that point of view, your interest is the same as that of the company that’s offering the job.”
    He listened carefully and, in the end, recognized that he preferred working in an environment with a clear structure, where he knew precisely what was expected of him and he could find answers to his questions if he wasn’t sure. We spent the rest of the interview clarifying his career plan and defining the sort of position that would best suit his personality, his experience, and his skills. I promised to keep him on file and contact him again as soon as there was a vacancy that matched his profile better.
    I walked him to the elevator and wished him the best of luck for the future.
    Back in my office, I looked at the missed calls. I had a text from Dubreuil:
    Come and meet me at the bar of the Hotel George V. Take a taxi and during the ride, contradict EVERYTHING the driver says. EVERYTHING. I’m waiting for you. —Y.D.
    I reread it twice and couldn’t suppress a grimace at the thought of what awaited me. Everything would depend on what the taxi driver said. It could quickly become very unpleasant.
    A glance at my watch: 5:40 P.M. I had no more interviews, but I never left the office before 7:00 at the best of times.
    I looked at my e-mails. A dozen or so, but nothing urgent.
    I grabbed my raincoat and looked into the corridor. Nobody in sight. I headed for the emergency stairs. No point in standing around waiting for the elevator. I reached the end of the corridor just as Grégoire Larcher charged out of his office. He must have seen my embarrassment instantly.
    “Taking the afternoon off?” he asked with a mocking smile.
    “I’ve got to go. An emergency.”
    He walked off without answering, no doubt pleased to have caught me red-handed. I rushed down the stairs, slightly disgusted at the way things were turning out. Dammit, I worked incredibly long hours every day, and the one day I left early, I got caught.
    Irritated, I charged into the Avenue de l’Opéra. The fresh air helped me refocus—unless it was the prospect of the task I had to accomplish, which was even more worrying than running into Larcher. I walked to the taxi stand. Nobody. I had a little time to spare and felt almost relieved. I lit a cigarette and puffed on it nervously. As soon as I was stressed, I had to smoke. What a filthy habit! I’d never get rid of it.
    As I walked, I had a strange feeling. The impression of being … followed. I turned around but just saw lots of people. Difficult to be sure. I walked on, feeling uneasy.
    I thought back to the last few times I had taken a cab. The drivers were for the most part out-and-out chatterboxes, openly expressing their opinions on all the topics in the news, and I had been careful not to give a different opinion. Okay, Dubreuil was right. But perhaps it was just a form of laziness. After all, there’s no point to trying to put people right. In any case, you won’t convince them.
    I looked in the distance. A fair amount of traffic. It was rush