"It's Paul."
A breath at the other end of the line. Then: "Do you know what time it is?"
He looked at his watch. Only just 6:00 AM. "Sony. I haven't slept." The breath changed into a weary sigh. "What do you want?"
"I just want to know if Céline got her candy."
Reyna's voice hardened. "You're sick."
"Did she get them-yes or no?"
And that's why you're calling me at six in the morning?"
Paul banged on the window of the phone booth. The battery of his cell phone was dead again. "Just tell me if she was pleased. I haven't seen her for ten days!"
"What really made her pleased were the men in uniforms who brought them over. She talked about that all day. For fuck's sake. All that ideological effort-to end up with pigs as babysitters.."
Paul pictured his daughter looking admiringly at the silver buttons, her eyes glistening at the candy the patrolmen had given her. It warmed his heart. Suddenly, with a cheerful tone, he promised. "I'll call back in a couple of hours. Before she leaves for school."
Without a word, Reyna hung up.
He left the booth and took a deep breath of night air. He was on Place du Trocadéro, between the Musée de l'Homme, the Musèe de la Marine and the Théatre National de Chaillot. It was drizzling on the central square, which was surrounded by fences and was clearly being renovated. He followed the planks, which formed a corridor and crossed the esplanade. The drizzle was creating a greasy film on his face. It was far too warm for the season, making him sweat in his parka. This humid weather matched his mood. He felt dirty, worn out, empty. There was a taste of papier-maché in his mouth.
Since Schiffer's phone call, at 11:00 PM, he had been following up the plastic-surgery lead. After digesting this new twist in his investigation-a woman with a new face, being chased by both Charlier's men and the Grey Wolves-he went to the headquarters of the French Medical Association on Avenue de Friedland, in the eighth arrondissement, in search of doctors who might have had some dealings with justice. As Schiffer had put it, having your face completely redone is never innocent. So he had to find a surgeon with no scruples. His initial idea was to look for those who had police records.
He had immersed himself in the archives and had made no bones about calling the departmental head to help him, even in the middle of the night. The search had turned up over six hundred files, just for the Paris region, over the past five years. How to wade through such a list? At 2:00 AM, he had phoned Jean-Philippe Arnaud, the president of the Association of Plastic Surgeons, to ask his advice. In reply, the sleepy voice had provided three names of virtuosos with iffy reputations, who might have agreed to carry out such an operation without asking too many questions.
Before hanging up, Paul had questioned him about other "scalpels" among the "respectable" surgeons. After some prompting, Arnaud had added seven more names, insisting that they were recognized practitioners and would never have gotten involved in such a business. Paul cut short his comments and thanked him.
So at 3:00 in the morning, he had had a list of ten names. For him, the night was still young…
He stopped at the far side of the Trocadéro, between the two museums, looking over the Seine. Sitting on the steps, he let himself be seduced by the beauty of the view. The gardens were laid out in different levels, with fountains and statues forming a dreamlike landscape. The Pont d'Iéna added touches of light to the river, as far as the Eiffel Tower on the opposite bank, which looked like a huge cast-iron paperweight. All around, the dark buildings of the Champ-de-Mars slept in religious silence. Overall, the scene was reminiscent of a hidden Tibetan kingdom, a marvelous Xanadu at the end of the known world.
Paul went through what he had learned over the previous few hours.
To begin with, he had tried phoning up the surgeons. But his very first call proved to him that he would not find out anything that way: the man had hung up on him. In any case, the vital point was to show them the pictures of the victims and the one of Anna Heymes that Schiffer had left for him at the Louis-Blanc station.
So he went to see the first of the "shifty" surgeons on Rue ClémentMarot. According to Arnaud, this millionaire from Colombia was suspected of having operated on the godfathers of Medellin and Cali. He was extremely renowned for his skill. It was said that he could operate using either his right or his left hand.
Despite the late hour, the artist in question had not gone to bed -or rather, was not asleep. Paul had disturbed him in full action, in the scented shadows of a vast penthouse. He had not seen his features clearly but had grasped that the faces on the photos Paul showed him rang no bells.
The second address was of a clinic on Rue Washington, on the other side of the Champs-Elysées.
Paul had grabbed the surgeon just before an emergency operation on a victim of first-degree burns. He had played his part, producing his card, sketching out details of the case, placing the pictures on the table. The man had not even lowered his surgical mask. He had just shaken his head before leaving to take care of that charred flesh. Paul remembered what Arnaud had said: this character artificially cultivated human skin. It was said that, after burning, he could modify people's fingerprints, thus completing a new identity for criminals on the run..
Paul had gone once more into the night.
He had found the third surgeon fast asleep in his apartment on Avenue d'Eylau, near the Trocadéro. He was another celebrity one who was supposed to have operated on the greatest stars of show business. But no one knew who or what on. It was also rumored that he had altered his own appearance after some problems with the police in his native South Africa.
He had received Paul warily his hands jammed in his dressing-gown pockets like revolvers. After looking at the photos in disgust, he had uttered a categorical "never seen them before."
Paul had emerged from these three visits as though he had been swimming underwater. At 6:00 in the morning, he had suddenly felt in need of something familiar, something he knew. So he called up the only family that he had-or what was left of it. But the call had not comforted him. Reyna was still on another planet. And Céline, fast asleep. was light-years away from his world-a world in which killers put living rodents in women's vaginas, where cops cut off people's fingers to get information…
Paul raised his eyes. Dawn was stretching up in the sky, like the curve of a distant star. A broad mauve strip was gradually turning pink and, at the top of its arc, was distilling a hint of sulfur, already dotted with white, sparkling particles. The mica of day…
He stood up and retraced his steps. When he reached Place du Trocadero, the cafés were opening their doors. He spotted the lights of Le Malakoff, where he had arranged to meet his two assistants, Naubrel and Matkowska.
The previous day, he had told them to drop the business about high-pressure chambers and instead obtain as much information as they could about the Grey Wolves and their political history. While Paul was focusing on the target, he also wanted to know something about the hunters.
In the doorway of the café, he paused for a moment and considered another problem that was bugging him-the disappearance of Jean-Louis Schiffer. He had heard nothing from him since that phone call at 11:00 last night. Paul had tried contacting him several times, in vain. Instead of fearing the worst, he sensed that the bastard had double-crossed him. Now that he was free again, Schiffer had presumably found a hot lead and was following it up all on his own.
Controlling his anger, Paul mentally gave him one more chance. He had until 10:00 to show a sign of life. After that, Paul would put out an arrest warrant. He had nothing more to lose.
He pushed open the door of the bar, feeling his mood grow ever darker.
The two lieutenants were already ensconced in a corner. Before joining them, Paul rubbed his face with his hands and tried to flatten out his parka. He wanted to look like what he in fact was their superior-and not some tramp blown in from the night.
He crossed the overbright, over-renovated room, where everything looked fake, from the chandeliers to the backs of the chairs. A trashy bar, used to the vapors of alcohol and drunken chatter, but at this hour still empty.
Paul sat down in front of the officers, pleased to see their jovial faces again. Naubrel and Matkowska were not great investigators, but they still had the enthusiasm of youth. They made Paul think of the carefree, light existence that he had never had.
They started by assailing him with details of their nocturnal quest. After ordering a coffee, Paul interrupted them. "All right, boys. Get to the point."
They exchanged a knowing glance, then Naubrel opened a thick file of photocopies.
"The Grey Wolves are basically a political organization. From what we've found out, lefty ideas were dominant in Turkey in the 1960s. Just like in France. So the extreme right wing rose up in reaction. A man called Alpaslan Türkes, an army colonel who used to have links with the Nazis, set up a party: the Nationalist Action Parry. He and his men stood as a bastion against the red peril."
Matkowska took over. "As well as the official group, ideological clubs were started, aimed at recruiting the young. First in the universities, then in the countryside. The kids that joined them called themselves Idealists or else Grey Wolves." He glanced at his notes. "Or Bozkurt in Turkish."
This all corresponded to what Schiffer had told him.
In the 1970s," Naubrel went on, "the communism versus fascism war increased in tension. The Grey Wolves armed themselves. In some parts of Anatolia, training camps were opened. The young Idealists were indoctrinated there, trained in the martial arts and taught how to use guns. Illiterate peasants were transformed into armed, trained, fanatical killers."
Matkowska took out another wad of photocopies. "In 1977, the Grey Wolves went into action: planting bombs, machine-gunning public edifices, assassinating public figures… The Communists hit back. A real civil war broke out. At the end of the 1970s, between fifteen and twenty people were being killed every day in Turkey. It was pure and simple terror."
Paul butted in. "But what about the government? The police? The army?"
Naubrel smiled. "That's just the point. The army let things go to pot so that they could clear up the mess later on. In 1980, they organized a coup d'etat. A neat job, with no messes. The terrorists on both sides were arrested. The Grey Wolves felt betrayed. They had fought against communism, and now a right-wing government was putting them in jail… At the time, Türkes wrote: 'I am in prison, but my ideas are in power.' In fact, the Grey Wolves were soon freed. Türkes gradually started up his political activities once more. In his wake, other Grey Wolves went straight. They became politicians and members of parliament. But there were still the hit men left, the peasants who had been trained in camps. All they knew was violence and fanaticism."
"Yeah." Matkowska went on. "And now they were orphans. The right wing was in power and didn't need them anymore. Türkes was too busy becoming respectable to want to have anything to do with them. When they were released from prison, what could they do?"
Naubrel put down his coffee cup and answered the question. They had their double act down to a science.
"They became mercenaries. They were armed and experienced. So they worked for the highest bidder, the state or the mafia. According to the Turkish journalists we contacted, it's an open secret that the Grey Wolves were used by the MIT, the Turkish secret service, to assassinate Armenian and Kurdish leaders. They formed a militia, or death squads. But most of all, it was the mafia that employed them as debt collectors, racketeers, bodyguards… In the mid 1980s, they oversaw the development of the drug trade in Turkey. Sometimes they even replaced the mafia clans and took over the reins. They have a vital advantage over classic crooks: they have kept their links with the powers that be and especially with the police. Over the past few years, a series of scandals have revealed the close links between the mafia, the state and nationalism."
Paul thought this over. It all seemed like vague, ancient history to him. The word mafia was a catch-all term. Still the same images of an octopus, plots, and invisible networks… what did it all really mean? Nothing in this brought him any nearer to the killers he was chasing, nor to their female target. He had no faces, no names to go on.
As though following his train of thought, Naubrel laughed and said proudly, "And now for some pictures!" He pushed aside the papers and stuck his hands in an envelope. "We took a look at the photo archives of the Milliyet newspaper on the Internet. It's one of Istanbul 's biggest dailies. And we found this."
Paul picked up the image. "What is it?"
"The funeral of Alpaslan Türkes. The 'Old Wolf' died in April 1997. He was eighty. It was a real national event."
Paul could not believe his eyes. The funeral had drawn thousands of Turks. The caption on the photo even read: "A funeral procession of four kilometers, escorted by ten thousand policemen."
It was a solemn, magnificent scene. As black as the crowd gathered around the procession, in front of Ankara 's Grand Mosque. As white as the snow that was falling that day in large flakes. As red as the Turkish flags, floating all around among the faithful.
The next pictures showed the head of the main group. He recognized Tansu Çiller, the former prime minister, and supposed that other Turkish dignitaries must have been there, too. He even noted the presence of emissaries from neighboring countries, wearing the traditional costumes of Central Asia, with their fur hats and gold-embroidered greatcoats.
Suddenly, Paul had another idea. Mafia godfathers must also have taken part in the procession… The heads of the families of Istanbul and other regions of Anatolia must have come to pay a final homage to their political ally. Among them, there might even be the people behind the very case he was working on-the man who had set the killers on the track of Sema Gokalp…
He examined the other photos, which revealed interesting details about the crowd. For example, most of the red flags did not have just one crescent-the symbol of Turkey -but three arranged in a triangle. This was echoed by other posters featuring a wolf howling beneath three moons.
It seemed to Paul that he was looking at an army on the march, stone warriors with primitive values and esoteric symbols. More than just a political party, the Grey Wolves were a sort of sect, a mystical clan with ancestral traditions.
In the final reproductions, another detail surprised him: the militants were not lifting clenched fists when the coffin passed, as he had thought. Their salute was more original, with two raised fingers. He focused on a woman, in tears in the snow, who was making this strange gesture.
When he looked more closely, he saw that she was raising her index and pinkie fingers, while her other two fingers were bent beneath her thumb, as though forming a pincer. He asked, out loud, "What does that gesture mean?"
"I dunno," Matkowska replied. "They're all doing it. It must be a sign of recognition. They look completely nuts to me!"
That sign was the key. Two fingers up, pointing to the sky, like ears… Suddenly, the penny dropped.
Facing Naubrel and Matkowska, he made the gesture. "Jesus," he whispered. "Can't you see what it represents?" Paul moved his hand till it was in profile, pointed like a snout toward the window. "Look carefully."
"Shit," Naubrel murmured. "It's a wolf. The head of a wolf"
On the way out of the bar, Paul announced, "We'll split up."
The other two cops took the blow. After a sleepless night, they had obviously hoped to go home. He ignored their desperate stares. "Naubrel, you get back onto the decompression chambers.”
“What? But I-"
"I want a complete list of sites containing that sort of equipment in the entire Paris region."
The officer opened his hands in a gesture of impotence. "It's a blind alley, Captain. Matkowska and I have been through the lot. From masonry to heating, from sanitation to glaziers. We've visited test sites, we've-"
Paul stopped him. If he had followed his own opinion, then he would have dropped the matter, too. But Schiffer had asked him about the lead during their phone call, which meant that he had good reason to take an interest in it. And more than ever, Paul was beginning to trust the old man's instincts…
"I want a list," he said firmly "With all the places where there's a chance the killers might have used a chamber."
"What about me?" Matkowska asked.
Paul handed him the keys to his apartment.
"You go to my place, Rue du Chemin Vert. From the mailbox, you get back all the catalogues, guidebooks and documents about ancient masks and busts. There's someone on the homicide squad collecting them for me."
"Then what do I do with them?"
He didn't really believe in this lead either. But he could hear Schiffer asking, ‘What about the ancient masks?’ Maybe Paul's hypothesis was not that bad after all… "You sit down comfortably in my apartment," he went on firmly. "Then you compare all the images with the faces of the victims."
"Why?"
"To look for similarities. I'm sure the way the killer disfigures them is based on some archaeological remains."
The incredulous officer stared at the keys glittering in his palm. Paul made no further explanation. Walking toward his car, he concluded: "Report at noon. But if you find anything solid before, call me at once."
It was now time to deal with afresh idea that was bugging him. Ali Ajik, a cultural attaché at the Turkish embassy, lived a few blocks away. It might be worth contacting him. He had always been cooperative during this case, and Paul now needed to talk to a Turkish citizen.
In his car, he picked up his cell phone, which was at last fully recharged. Ajik was not asleep-or at least so he said.
A few minutes later, Paul was clambering up the diplomat's stairs. He was shaking slightly, from the lack of sleep, from hunger and excitement…
He was welcomed into a small, modern apartment that had been transformed into Ali Baba's cave. Varnished furniture sparkled with cooper glints. Medallions, frames and lanterns took the walls by storm with gold and bronze beams. The floor vanished beneath layers of rugs, vibrant with the same ochre shades. This Thousand and One Nights décor did not fit the man himself Ajik was a modern Turkish polyglot, about forty years old.
"Before me," he explained apologetically, "the apartment was occupied by a diplomat from the old school." He smiled, his hands stuck in the pockets of a pearl gray tracksuit. "So what's the panic?"
"I want to show you some photos."
"Some photos? No problem. Come on in. I'm making some tea."
Paul wanted to refuse, but he had to play the game. This visit was informal, not to say illegal-he was stepping beyond the limits of diplomatic immunity. He sat down on the floor, among the rugs and embroidered cushions, while Ajik, cross-legged, poured tea into small bulbous glasses.
Paul observed him. His regular features, below short-cropped black hair, fit over his skull like a hood. A clear face, drawn by a calligrapher's nib. Only his stare was disturbing, with asymmetric eyes. The left pupil never moved, remaining forever fixed on whoever he was looking at, while the other was fully mobile.
Without touching his scalding glass, Paul got to the point. "First, I want to talk about the Grey Wolves."
"Is this a new case?"
Paul ducked the question. "What do you know about them?"
"It was all a long time ago. They were really powerful in the 1970s. Extremely violent people…" He slowly took a sip. "Have you noticed my eye?"
Paul tried to look astonished, as if to say, "Now that you mention it…"
"Yes, of course you'd noticed it." Ajik smiled. "It was the Idealists who put it out. On the university campus, when I was a left-wing militant. Their methods were rather… harsh."
"And now?"
Ajik gestured wearily. "They no longer exist. Or not as terrorists, anyway. They don't need to use force anymore. They're in power in Turkey ”
“I'm not talking about politicians. I'm talking about hoods. The people who work in organized crime."
Ajik's expression became more ironic. "All those stories… in Turkey, it's hard to tell fact from fiction."
"Some of them work for mafia families-yes or no?"
"They certainly did in the past. But now…" He wrinkled his brows. "Why are you asking me this? Does it have something to do with all those murders?"
Paul decided to press on. "From what I understand, even though they work for the mafia, these men remain loyal to their cause."
"That's right. In fact, they look down on the gangsters who employ them. They are convinced that they are serving a higher ideal."
"Tell me about it."
Ajik took a deep breath, exaggerating the swelling of his chest, as though puffing himself up with patriotism. "The return of the Turkish empire. The illusory Turan."
"What's that?"
"I'd need an entire day to explain that."
"Please," Paul said more abruptly "I have to understand what drives these people."
Ali Ajik leaned on an elbow "The origins of the Turkish people lie in the steppes of Central Asia. Our ancestors had slanted eyes and lived in the same regions as the Mongols. For example, the Huns were Turks. These nomads crossed all of Central Asia before reaching Anatolia in about the tenth century of the Christian era."
"But what's the Turan?"
"A primordial empire, which is supposed to have existed long ago, uniting all of Central Asia 's Turkish speakers. A sort of Atlantis, which historians often mention but without offering any real proof of its existence. The Grey Wolves dream of this lost continent. Their hope is to unite the Uzbeks, the Tatars, the Uigurs, the Turkmen and thus form a mighty empire stretching from the Balkans to the Baikal."
"Is that feasible?"
"No, of course not. But there is a hint of reality in such a fantasy. Today, nationalists are promoting economic alliances, a sharing of natural resources between the Turkish-speaking peoples. Such as oil."
Paul remembered those men with slanting eyes and embroidered coats in the picture of the funeral of Türkes. He had been right: the world of the Grey Wolves was a state within a state. An underground nation, beyond the laws and boundaries of other countries. He took out the photos of the funeral. His Buddha position was starting to give him cramps. "Do these pictures mean anything to you?"
Ajik picked up the first one, and murmured, "Türkes's burial… wasn't in Istanbul at the time."
"Do you recognize any important people?"
"But the entire ruling class was there! Members of the government. Representatives of right-wing parties. Candidates for Türkes's succession…"
"Are there any active Grey Wolves? I mean known villains?"
The diplomat looked through the snaps. He seemed more ill at ease, as though the very sight of these men raised an ancient terror in him. He pointed. "This one. He's Oral Celik."
"Who's he?"
"The accomplice of Ali Aga. One of the two men who tried to assassinate the pope in 1981."
And he's at large?"
"That's Turkey for you. Don't forget the close links between the Grey Wolves and the police. Or how corrupt our judicial system is…"
"Do you recognize any others?"
Ajik appeared more reticent. "I'm no specialist."
"I'm talking about celebrities. Heads of the families."
"Babas, you mean?"
Paul made a mental note of the term, which was presumably the Turkish equivalent of godfather.
Ajik spent some time on each photo. "Some faces ring a bell," he said at last, "but I can't put a name to them. People who appeared regularly in the press, during trials for gun running, kidnapping, illegal casinos…"
Paul removed a felt-tip pen from his pocket. "Circle each face you recognize. And jot the name down beside it, if it comes back to you."
The Turk drew several circles but wrote no names. Suddenly, he stopped. "This one's a real star. A national figure."
He pointed at a large man, about seventy years old, who was walking with a stick. His high forehead, gray hair brushed back and jutting jaws gave him the profile of a stag. He oozed power.
"His name's Ismail Kudseyi. He's undoubtedly the most powerful buyuk-baba in Istanbul. I read an article about him recently… Apparently, he's still in business today. One of Turkey 's major drug runners. Photos of him are a rarity. It's said that he had the eyes torn out of a photographer who had managed to take a series of surreptitious portraits of him."
"And he's known to have criminal activities?"
Ajik burst out laughing. "Of course! In Istanbul, people say that all Kudseyi has to fear is an earthquake."
"And is he linked to the Grey Wolves?"
"In a big way. He's one of their historic leaders. Most of today's police officers were trained in his camps. He's also famous as a philanthropist. His foundation provides grants for underprivileged children. All this with a background of fervent patriotism."
Paul noticed a detail. "What does he have on his hands?"
"Scars caused by acid. It's said that he started out as a hit man in the 1960s. He used to get rid of his victims in acid baths. Another rumor."
Paul felt a strange tingling in his veins. Such a man could well have ordered the execution of Sema Gokalp. But why? And why him rather than the next man in the procession? How could he run an investigation at a distance of over a thousand miles?
Paul looked at the other circled faces. Harsh, rigid stares, mustaches whitened by the snow… He could not help feeling a certain respect for these lords of crime. Among them, he noticed a young man with a thick head of hair.
"And him?"
"The new generation. He's Azer Akarsa. One of Kudseyi's protégés. Thanks to the backing of his foundation, this young peasant has become a big businessman. He's made a fortune on the fruit market. Today, Akarsa owns huge orchards in his native region, near Gaziantep. And he isn't even forty yet. A real young Turk in every sense of the term."
The name Gaziantep set off a spark in Paul's mind. All of the victims came from that area. Was it just a coincidence? He gazed at the young man in his corduroy jacket, done up to the neck. He looked less like a business prodigy and more like a dreamy, bohemian student.
"And is he in politics, too?"
Ajik nodded in confirmation. "A modern leader. He has set up his own clubs. Their members listen to rap, talk about Europe, drink alcohol. It all seems very liberal."
"So he's a moderate, then?"
"Only in appearance. In my opinion, Akarsa is a pure fanatic. Maybe the worst of them all. He believes in a radical return to the roots. He's obsessed by Turkey 's prestigious past. He, too, has his own foundation, which finances archaeological work."
Paul thought of those ancient masks, faces carved like stone. But it was not a lead. Nor even a theory. It was a crazy idea totally lacking in support.
"Any criminal activities?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so. Akarsa doesn't need any money. And I'm sure that he looks down on those Grey Wolves who have compromised themselves with the mafia. To his mind, they are unworthy of the cause.".
Paul glanced at his watch- 9:30. He still had plenty of time to see a few more surgeons. He put away the photos and got to his feet.
"Thanks, Ali. I'm sure all this information's going to be useful, one way or another."
The man showed him out. In the doorway, he asked, "You still haven't answered my question. Do the Grey Wolves have anything to do with that series of murders?"
"Yes, there is a possibility that they're involved."
"But… how?"
"I can't tell you."
"Do you… do you think they're in Paris?"
Without answering, Paul walked down the corridor. He stopped by the stairs. "One last thing, Ali. Why are they called the Grey Wolves?”
“Because of the myth of our origin."
"What myth?"
"It's said that, a long time ago, the Turks were a mere starving horde, wandering homelessly in the heartlands of Central Asia. When they were on their last legs, some wolves fed them and protected them. Gray wolves, who gave birth to the real Turkish people."
Paul noticed that he was gripping the rail so tightly that his knuckles were white. He pictured a pack roaring across the infinite steppes, mingling with the gray gleam of the sun.
Ajik concluded, "They protect the Turkish race, Captain. They are the guardians of our origins, of our initial purity. Some of them even think that they're the distant descendants of a white she-wolf, called Asena. I hope you're wrong and that these people aren't in Paris. Because they're not ordinary criminals. They're unlike anything or anybody you've ever seen before."
Paul was getting into his Golf when his phone rang.
"Maybe I've found something, Captain." It was Naubrel.
"What?"
"I questioned a heating engineer, and I discovered that they use pressure chambers in a field we haven't explored yet."
Paul's head was still full of wolves and steppes. He could not really see what the officer was talking about. He asked, "What field do you mean?"
"The preservation of food. Its a Japanese technique that's just been adopted. Instead of heating products, you put them under high pressure. It's more expensive, but it means you conserve their vitamins and-"
"For Christ's sake, get to the point. Do you have a lead or not?"
Naubrel's voice darkened. "In the Paris region, there are several factories that use this method. Suppliers of luxury goods, like organic food or stuff for upmarket delis. There's a site that looks particularly interesting, in the Bièvre valley"
"Why?"
"It belongs to a Turkish company."
Paul felt the roots of his hair tingle. "What's its name?"
"Matak Limited." Two syllables that obviously meant nothing to him. "What sort of things do they produce?"
"Fruit juices and luxury jams. According to my information, it's more of a laboratory than an industrial site. It's a pilot project."
The tingling turned into electric waves. Azer Akarsa, the nationalist golden boy, had made his money from fruit trees. Could the country boy from Gazantiep have a connection here? Paul's voice rose. "Right. So now you're going to give the place a visit."
"Now?"
"When do you think? I want you to search through their pressurized chambers with a fine-tooth comb. But watch out. No question of having a warrant or flashing your police card."
"So how do you expect me to-?"
"Find something. I also want you to identify the Turkish owners of the factory"
"But that must be a holding company, or some other private company!"
"Ask the managers at the plant. Then contact the French Chamber of Commerce. The Turkish one, too, if necessary. I want a list of the main shareholders."
Naubrel apparently guessed that his boss had a precise idea in mind. "What are we after?"
"Maybe a name. Azer Akarsa."
"Jesus, these names… Can you spell that?"
Paul did so. He was about to hang up when the officer asked, Have you been listening to your radio?"
"Why?"
"Last night, a body was found in Père-Lachaise. It's been mutilated." A stab of ice in his side. "A woman?"
"No. A man. A cop who used to work in the tenth. Jean-Louis Schiffer. He specialized in Turks and-"
The major damage caused by a bullet in a human body is made not by the bullet itself but by its wake, creating a disastrous vacuum, the trail of a comet through the flesh, tissue and bone.
In the same way, Paul felt these words rip through him, amplifying inside him, drawing out a line of pain that made him scream. But he did not hear his own cry, because he had already placed his flashing light on the roof and turned on the siren.
They were all there.
He could rank them by their clothes. The bigwigs from Place Beauvau, in black coats and shiny shoes, wearing mourning like a second skin. The commissioners and brigade chiefs, in camouflage green or autumnal houndstooth, like lurking hunters. The inspectors in leather jackets and red armbands, looking like pimps recruited for a militia. Most of them, whatever their rank or duties, had a mustache. It was a sign of unity. A label that transcended their differences. As inevitable as the official stamps on their cards.
Paul went past the row of vans and patrol cars, with their silently turning lights at the foot of the columbarium. Then he discreetly slipped under the security cordon that blocked the entrance to the buildings.
Once inside, he turned left, beneath the arcades, and leaned back against a pillar. He had no time to admire the place-the long galleries whose walls were covered by names and flowers, that atmosphere of holy respect, hovering above the marble, where the memory of the dead drifted like a mist above the waters. He concentrated on the group of officers standing in the gardens, in the hope of spotting some familiar faces.
The first one he saw was Philippe Charlier. Draped in his Loden coat, the Jolly Green Giant more than ever lived up to his nickname. Beside him, there was Christophe Beauvanier, in his baseball cap and leather jacket. The two officers Schiffer had quizzed last night, who seemed to have dashed there like jackals to check if his corpse really was cold. A little farther on, Paul made out Jean-Pierre Guichard, the public prosecutor; Claude Monestier, the chief commissioner at Louis-Blanc; and also Thierry Bomarzo, the magistrate, one of the few people present who knew what part Schiffer had played in this fuckup. Paul realized what this scene meant for him: his career was finished.
But the most amazing thing was the presence of Morencko, the head of OCRTIS, and of Pollet, chief of the Drug Squad. This was all rather excessive for the death of an ordinary retired inspector. It made Paul think of a bomb, whose true power is revealed only after it has exploded.
He approached, still hidden by the pillars. His head should have been teeming with questions. Instead, what struck him was the way this procession of dark figures, beneath the arches of the sanctuary, looked strangely like the funeral of Alpaslan Türkes. There was the same ceremony, same solemnity, same mustaches. In his own way, Jean-Louis Schiffer had also managed to get a state funeral.
He noticed an ambulance at the far end of the lawn, parked beside an underground entrance. Some male nurses in white coats were smoking cigarettes and talking with some uniformed officers. They were presumably waiting for the people from forensics to finish their job so that they could take the body away. That meant Schiffer was still inside.
Paul left his hiding place and headed for the entrance, sheltered by the privet hedges. He was going down the stairs when a voice hailed him: "Hey! You can't go down there!"
He turned around and brandished his card. The orderly froze, almost standing to attention. Without a word, Paul abandoned him to his surprise and went down as far as the cast-iron gate.
At first, it felt as if he was entering the maze of a mine, with its tunnels and landings. Then his eyes got used to the darkness and he made out the nature of the place. White and black alleyways punctuated with thousands of niches, names, wreathes suspended in glass cases. A troglodyte city dug out of the rock.
He leaned over a shaft that revealed the lower floors. A white halo was shining up from the second level down: the men from forensics were there. He found another staircase and took it. As he approached the light, the atmosphere seemed to get even darker and heavier. A peculiar smell of something dry, sharp and stony itched into his nose.
When he reached the floor, he turned right. He was now following the smell more than the light source. At the first turning, he saw some technicians dressed in white overalls, their heads covered by paper hats. They had set up their base camp at the intersection of several galleries. Their chrome-plated cases, lying on plastic sheets, were open to reveal test tubes, vials and sprays… Paul approached silently-the two figures had their backs to him.
He did not need to force a cough. The space was saturated with dust. The cosmonauts turned around. They were wearing masks shaped like an inverted Y. Once again, Paul flashed his card. One of them shook its insectlike head while raising its gloved hands.
A muffled voice issued forth impossible to tell which one was speaking: "Sorry, but we've started looking for fingerprints."
"Just a second. He was my partner. Jesus-you can understand that, can't you?"
The two Ys looked at each other. A few seconds passed. One of the technicians then grabbed a mask from his case. "Third row," he said. "Follow the projectors. And stay on the planks. Not a single step on the floor."
Ignoring the proffered mask, Paul set of.
The man stopped him. "Take it. You won't be able to breathe."
Paul cursed as he slipped the white shell over his head. l e went along the first alley on the left, across the raised planks, stepping over the cables of the projectors that had been set up at each intersection. The walls seemed to never end, repeating a sequence of niches and commemorative inscriptions while the air particles gained in density.
Finally, after a last turning, he understood the reason for such precautions. Beneath the halogens, everything was gray: the floor, walls and ceiling. The ashes of the dead had escaped from their urns, which had been blown apart by bullets. Dozens of them had rolled onto the ground, mingling their contents with the plaster and rubble.
On the walls, Paul managed to identify impacts coming from two different guns-a large caliber, like a shotgun, and a small semiautomatic pistol, probably a 9- or 45-mm.
He went on, fascinated by this lunar scene. He had seen photos of towns in the Philippines that had been shrouded over after a volcanic eruption, their streets frozen by the cooling lava. Haggard survivors, with faces like statues, carrying stone children in their arms. The same picture was now in front of him.
He crossed another yellow band. Then suddenly, at the end of a row, he saw him.
Schiffer had lived like a dog.
Now he had died like a dog-in a final burst of violence.
His totally gray body was arched up, sideways, with one leg bent back beneath his raincoat, his right hand raised, curled up like a cockerel's foot. Behind, a pool of blood ran out of what was left of his skull, as though one of his darkest dreams had exploded in his brains.
But the worst part was his face. The cinders covering him did not quite conceal the horror of the wounds. An eyeball had been torn out-excised, actually, with all of its socket. Lacerations dug into his throat, forehead and cheeks. One of them, which was longer and deeper, revealed the jawbone, then rose up to the torn socket. It drew his mouth out into a ghastly grin, overflowing with silvery pink slime.
Doubled up with a sudden fit of nausea, Paul pulled off his mask. But his guts were totally empty. In his convulsions, the only questions that came to mind were the obvious ones: Why had Schiffer come to this place? Who had killed him? Who could have sunk to such a degree of barbarity?
At that moment, he dropped to the ground and burst into tears. Within seconds, they were running down his cheeks, with him not even thinking of trying to hold them back or wipe away the mud that was building up on his face.
He was not crying for Schiffer.
Nor was he crying for the murdered women.
He was crying for himself.
For his loneliness and the blind alley he was now in.
"It's time we had a word, no?"
Paul turned around at once.
A man he had never seen before, in glasses, without a mask, and whose long, dust-covered face looked like a stalactite, was smiling at him.
"So it was you who put Schiffer back into circulation, was it?" The voice was clear, strong, almost merry, matching the blueness of the sky.
Paul shook the ash from his parka and sniffed-he had recovered a semblance of composure. "That's right. I needed some advice."
"What sort of advice?"
"I'm working on a series of murders, in the Turkish quarter in Paris.”
“Was your idea approved by your superiors?"
"You know the answer to that already"
The bespectacled man nodded. He was not just tall. His entire bearing seemed to surge up, with his haughty head, raised chin and high brows set off by gray curls. A top investigator in the prime of life, with the prying look of a greyhound.
Paul probed a little. "Is this an internal investigation?"
"No, I'm Olivier Amien. From the Geopolitical Drugs Observatory."
Paul had often heard this name during his time at OCRTIS. Amien was supposed to be the king of France 's antidrug war. A man in charge of both the national and international squads.
They turned their backs on the columbarium and headed down an alleyway, which was reminiscent of a paved nineteenth-century side road. Paul saw some gravediggers smoking cigarettes, leaning on a sepulchre. They were presumably discussing that morning's incredible find.
In a voice laden with innuendo, Amien went on. "You worked for some time on the drug squad, I believe…"
"Yes, for a few years."
"In what field?"
"Petty dealers. Cannabis, mostly. The North African networks.”
“You never had anything to do with the Golden Crescent?"
Paul wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "If you got straight to the point, then we'd both save a lot of time."
Amien beamed. "I hope you don't mind if I give you a little lesson in modern history."
Paul thought of all the names and dates he had absorbed so far that day "Go on. I'm making up for lost time today"
The top cop pushed his glasses up his nose and began. "I suppose you remember the Taliban? Since September II, you can't escape fundamentalists. The media has been full of stories about their lives and works, blowing up the Buddhas, their hospitality to bin Laden, and their despicable attitude to women, to culture and to any form of tolerance. But there's one side of them that is less well known and that was the only good point about their regime. Those monsters fought effectively against the production of opium. In their very first year in power, they practically eradicated poppy growing in Afghanistan. From thirty-three hundred tons of opium-based products in 2000, the total fell to just one hundred eighty-five tons in 2001. In their eyes, such activities are contrary to the Koran… But of course, as soon as Mullah Omar was deposed, cultivation started up all over again. Even as we speak, the peasants of Ningarhar are watching the flowers bloom on plants they sowed last November. They'll soon start harvesting, at the end of April."
Paul's attention came and went, as though carried on an inner tide. His tears had softened his feelings. He was hypersensitive, liable to burst into laughter or start sobbing again at the slightest thing.
"But before the attacks of September ii," Amien went on, "no one expected their regime to fall so soon. So the drug smugglers were already looking for new suppliers. In particular, the Turkish buyuk-babas, the `grandfathers' in charge of exporting heroin to Europe, had made contact with other producers such as Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. I don't know if you're aware of the fact, but such countries have the same linguistic roots."
Paul sniffed again. "Yes, I'm starting to be aware now"
Amien nodded curtly "In the past, the Turks had always bought their opium from Afghanistan and Pakistan. They had the morphine refined in Iran, then produced the heroin in their laboratories in Anatolia. With their Turkic cousins, they had to change their methods. They refined the gum in the Caucasus, then produced their powder in the far east of Anatolia. It took some time to set up these new networks and, so far as we know, it was still a makeshift job as late as last year. Then, in the winter of 2000-2000, we heard talk of a possible alliance. A triangular agreement between the Uzbek mafia; who control vast fields of production; the Russian clans, who are the heirs of the Red Army, which for years supervised the routes through the Caucasus and the refineries in that region; and the Turkish families who would then produce the actual heroin. But we had no names, no facts, just some interesting details suggesting that a high-level allegiance was being prepared."
They were now in a darker part of the cemetery. Black vaults, side by side, with grim doors and sloping roofs. It was like a mining village crouching under a coal black sky.
Amien clicked his tongue before continuing. "These three criminal groups decided to inaugurate their joint venture with a pilot consignment, a small quantity of dope that would be exported as a test and stand as a symbol. It would be an open door for the future… For this special occasion, each partner wanted to display their particular abilities. The Uzbeks supplied a top-quality gum. The Russians called in their best chemists to refine the base morphine, and, at the other end of the line, the Turks produced some practically pure heroin. A special number four. Nectar. We suppose that they also dealt with exporting the dope and transferring it to Europe. They had to prove their reliability in this field. They were now up against considerable competition from the Albanians and Kosovars, who had become masters of the routes through the Balkans."
Paul did not see what this story had to do with him.
"All this occurred at the end of the winter of 2001. We were expecting to see this famous consignment arrive at our frontier in the spring. It was a unique opportunity to nip this new network in the bud."
Paul gazed around at the tombs. This time it was a bright area, sculpted and varied as a music made of stone that was whispering in his ears.
"As early as the month of March, the customs men in Germany, France and Holland went on high alert. The ports, airports and border roads were watched around the clock. In each of our countries, members of the Turkish communities were questioned. We shook up our informers, bugged dealers' phones. By the end of May, we still hadn't found anything. Not a single clue or piece of information. In France, we started to get worried. So we decided to dig a little deeper into the Turkish community. To call in a specialist. A man who knew the Anatolian networks like the back of his hand, and who could become a real minesweeper."
These last words dragged Paul back to reality. He now grasped the connection between the two cases. "Jean-Louis Schiffer," he said without thinking.
"Exactly. The Cipher. Or Mr. Steel. As you prefer."
"But he was retired."
"So we had to ask him to reenlist."
Everything fell into place. The cover-up of April 2001. The Paris appeals court dropping charges against Schiffer for the murder of Gazil Hamet. Paul deduced, out loud: "Jean-Louis Schiffer did a deal. He insisted that you drop the Hamet affair."
"I can see that you know this business well."
"I'm part of it myself. And I'm beginning to see how deals are done with the police. The life of a little dealer isn't worth shit compared to the ambitions of a big boss."
"You're forgetting our main motivation: to stop a huge network from being set up, to destroy "
"Stop. I know the music already"
Amien raised his long hands, as though giving up any argument on the subject. "In any case, our problem was quite different."
"What do you mean?"
"Schiffer double-crossed us. When he found out which clan was involved in the alliance and how the convoy was being sent, he didn't tell us. We think he offered his services to the cartel. He must have suggested taking charge of the dope in Paris and then distributing it around the best dealers. Who better than him knew the drug scene in France?"
Arnim smiled cynically "Our intuition failed us in this case. What we wanted was Mr. Steel. What we got was the Cipher… We gave him the chance to pull off the stunt that he'd been waiting for years. This business would have been his crowning triumph."
Paul remained silent. He tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but there were too many gaps. After a minute, he asked. "If Schiffer had rounded off his career with such a caper, what was he doing rotting away in the Longères home?"
"It was because once more, nothing went as planned."
"Meaning?"
"The runner sent by the Turks never showed up. In the end, it was he who tricked everyone by making off with the consignment. Schiffer must have been scared that they'd suspect him. So he decided to lay low by locking himself away in Longéres until things blew over. Even a man like him feared the Turks. You can imagine the fate in store for traitors…"
Another memory: the Cipher hiding under an assumed name in Longères, his hunted look in the home… yes, he was afraid of the reprisals of the Turkish clans. The pieces were coming together, but Paul was still unconvinced. The overall pattern seemed too weak, too vague.
"That's just a load of guesswork." he replied. "You haven’t got the slightest proof. To begin with, why are you so sure that this dope never arrived in Europe?"
"There are two points that make that clear. First off, heroin of that quality would have made its mark on the market. There would have been an upsurge in overdoses, for instance. And that didn't happen."
"And the second point?"
"We found the dope."
"When?"
"Today" Amien glanced over his shoulder. "In the columbarium.”
“Here?"
"If you'd gone a little farther into the crypt, you'd have seen it for yourself, scattered among the ashes of the dead. It must have been stashed in one of the niches that were blown apart during the shoot-out. It's unusable now." He smiled again. "I must admit that the symbolism is rather powerful-white death ending up among the gray dead… It was that heroin that Schiffer came to fetch last night. It was his investigations that led him to it."
"What investigations?"
"Yours."
The cables still refused to find their connection. Paul mumbled, "I don't get it."
"But it's perfectly obvious. For some months, we have been thinking that the runner used by the Turks was a woman. In Turkey, women can become doctors, engineers and ministers. So why not drug smugglers?"
This time, the connection clicked into place. Sema Gokalp. Anna Heymes. The woman with two faces. The Turkish mafia had sent its Wolves to track down the woman who had betrayed them.
The target was the runner.
A thought flashed across Paul's mind: that night, Schiffer had jumped Sema just as she was picking up her stash.
There had been a fight.
There had been a murder.
And the prey was still on the run…
Amien was no longer in a laughing mood. "Your investigations interest us, Nerteaux. We have established a link between the three victims in your case and the woman we're looking for. The heads of the Turkish cartel have sent over their hit men to smoke her out, and so far they've failed. “Where is she, Nerteaux? Have you got the slightest idea where to find her?"
Paul did not reply. He was mentally going back along the track that had passed right under his nose. The Grey Wolves were torturing women in their search for some dope. Schiffer, with his usual flair, had gradually sniffed out that they were looking for the very person who had double-crossed him by making off with the precious load…
Suddenly, he made up his mind. Without a word of introduction, he told Olivier Amien the whole story. The kidnapping of Zeynep Tütengil in November 2001. The discovery of Sema Gokalp in the baths. The intervention of Philippe Charlier and the brainwashing. The program of mental conditioning. The creation of Anna Heymes. Her escape and rediscovery of her own story as she gradually got her memory back… until she became a drug runner once more and returned to the cemetery.
When Paul fell silent, the officer looked completely baffled. After a long pause, he asked, "That's why Charlier's here?"
"Beauvanier, too. They're up to their ears in this story. They wanted to see for themselves that Schiffer's really dead. But there's still Anna.
Heymes. And Charlier has to find her before she talks. He'll eliminate her as soon as he locates her. You're coursing the same hare."
Amien stood in front of Paul and froze. His expression was as hard as stone. "I'll deal with Charlier. What information have you got on the woman?"
Paul looked at the sepulchres around them. An ancient portrait in an oval frame. A placid Virgin, head leaning to one side, draped in a languid cape. A silent Christ, in a bronze like mood… There must be one salient detail in all this, but which one?
Amien grabbed his arm. "Do you have a lead? Schiffer's death is going to land on your plate. Your career as a policeman is over-unless we lay our hands on the girl and the whole affair is made public. With you as the hero. So I'll ask again. Have you got a lead?"
"I want to continue the investigation myself," Paul declared. "Give me the information; then we'll see."
"I want your word."
Amien lost his patience. "Out with it!"
Paul stared around one more time at the monuments: Mary's eroded face, Jesus' long features, the cameo with its sepia tint… At last he caught on. Faces. That was the only lead he had on her.
"She's altered her appearance," he murmured. "By plastic surgery. I have a list of ten surgeons capable of performing such an operation in Paris. I've already seen three of them. Give me one day to question the others."
Amien was clearly disappointed. "And… and that's all you've got?"
Paul thought of the fruit preserves plant and his vague suspicions about Azer Akarsa. But if that bastard was involved in the murders, he wanted him just for himself "Yes," he lied. "That's all. But it's far from nothing. Schiffer was convinced that the surgeon would help us find her. Let me prove to you that he was right."
Amien clenched his jaws. He now looked like a predator. He pointed at a gate behind Paul's back. "Alexandre-Dumas metro station is just there. Now vanish. I'll give you till noon to find her."
Paul realized that the officer had led him here intentionally. That he had always intended to suggest this sort of deal.
Amien slipped a business card into Paul's pocket. "My cell phone number. Find her, Nerteaux. It's your only chance. Otherwise, in a few hours' time, you'll be the target."
Paul did not take the metro. No self-respecting police officer takes the metro.
He sprinted as far as Place Gambetta, past the cemetery wall, until he found his car on Rue Emile-Landrin. He grabbed his old map of Paris, which was still stained with blood, and reread the list of remaining names.
Seven surgeons. Spread out over four parts of Paris and two suburbs.
He marked their addresses with circles on his map and worked out the quickest itinerary from one to the other, starting from the twentieth arrondissement.
When he was sure which route to take, he placed his flashing light on the roof and put his foot down, concentrating on the first name. Dr. Jérome Chéret, 18 Rue du Rocher, in the eighth arrondissement.
He headed due west, going up Boulevard Rochechouart, then Boulevard de Clichy. He took the protected bus lanes, lapping up the cycle routes and gliding up onto the pavements. He even took two one-way streets in the wrong direction.
When he had reached Boulevard des Batignolles, he slowed down and called up Naubrel. "Where are you at?"
"I'm on my way out of Matak Limited. I managed to wangle my way in with the hygiene department. A surprise inspection."
"And?"
"An immaculately white, clean plant. A real laboratory. I saw the high-pressure chamber. It's spotless. Nothing to be hoped for in that direction. I also spoke to the engineers…"
Paul had imagined a half-abandoned industrial site, full of rust, where somebody's screams would never have been heard. But suddenly, the idea of a spick-and-span lab seemed even more appropriate.
"Did you speak to the manager?"
"Yeah. Discreetly. He's French. Sounded squeaky-clean to me.”
“And further up? Have you identified the Turkish owners?"
"The site belongs to a public company called Yalin AS, which is in turn part of a holding group registered in Ankara. I've contacted the chamber of commerce and-"
"Hurry up. Pinpoint the shareholders. And don't forget the name Azer Akarsa." He hung up and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes since he had left the cemetery.
At the Villiers intersection, he swerved rapidly left into Rue du Rocher. He turned off the siren and lights to arrive in a more discreet fashion.
At 11:20, he rang at Jérome Chéret's door. He was invited to go through a side entrance, so as not to scare the clientele. The surgeon received him in the hush of an antechamber, leading to the operating theater.
"Just a quick glance." Paul told him after a few words of explanation. This time, he showed just two documents: the Identikit of Sema and Anna's new face.
"She's the same woman?" the surgeon said in admiration. "Lovely work."
"Do you know her or not?"
"Neither one nor the other. Sorry"
Paul ran down the stairs, across the red carpets, past the white plaster moldings. An X on his map, and off he went. It was 11:40.
Dr. Thierry Dewaele, 22 Rue de Phalsbourg, seventeenth arrondissement. Same kind of building. same questions, same answers.
At 12:15. he was turning the ignition key when his phone rang in his pocket. A message from Matkowska. He had called during Paul's brief interview with the doctor, but the signal had failed to penetrate behind those thick, swanky walls. He phoned back at once.
"I've got something new about those ancient sculptures," Matkowska said. "There's an archaeological site that contains giant heads. I've got some photos of them. These statues have fissures.. just like the mutilations…"
Paul closed his eyes. He did not know what thrilled him the most: getting close to a crazy murderer or having been correct right from the start.
Matkowska went on, in a trembling voice. "They're the heads of half-Greek, half-Persian gods that go back to the beginning of the Christian era. The sanctuary of a king, at the top of a mountain, in eastern Turkey -"
"Where exactly?"
"In the southeast. Near the border with Syria."
"Give me the names of the main towns."
"Hang on."
He heard the sound of pages turning. and muffled curses. He looked at his hands. They were not shaking. He felt ready, wrapped up in a casing of ice.
"There we are. There's a map. The Nemrut Dagi site is near Adiyaman and Gaziantep."
Gaziantep. Another lead pointing toward Azer Akarsa. He owned huge orchards in his native region, near Gaziantep, All Ajik had said. Were these orchards at the foot of the mountain where the statues were found? Had Azer Akarsa grown up in the shadow of those colossal heads?
Paul went back to the crux of the matter. He needed to hear confirmation for himself. "And these heads really look like the victims' faces?"
"It's amazing, Captain. The same cracks, the same mutilations. There's one statue, of a fertility goddess called Commagene, which is identical to the third victim. No nose, the chin rubbed down.. I've superimposed the two pictures. They're identical down to the last detail. I don't know what it all means, but it really gives you the shits, I."
Paul knew by experience that after long inquiries, the vital clues could sometimes fall together in the space of a few hours. Though Matkowska continued his report, Paul could hear Ajik's voice once more: He's obsessed by Turkey 's prestigious past. He, too, has his own foundation, which finances archaeological work.
Was the golden boy financing restoration work on that very site? Did those ancestral faces fascinate him for some personal reason? Paul paused, breathed deeply, then asked himself the vital question: Was Azer Akarsa the main killer? The leader of the commando unit? Could his passion for ancient stone go as far as to express itself in acts of torture and mutilation? It was too early to go any further.
Paul closed his mind to that theory and ordered, "Concentrate on these monuments. Try to find out if there's been any recent restoration work. And if so, who's financing it."
"Do you have an idea?"
"Maybe a foundation, but I don't know what it's called. If you find one, look at the names of its organizers and its main financiers. Look out for a certain Azer Akarsa."
Once again, he spelled the name. Sparks of fire now seemed to be bursting out between those letters, like shards of flint.
"Is that all?" the officer asked.
"No," Paul said breathlessly "Also check up on the visas given to Turkish nationals since last November. See if Akarsa was one of them."
"But that'll take hours!"
"No it won't. Everything's computerized. I've already put someone on the visa lead at the immigration office. Contact him and give him the name. And be quick about it."
"But -"
"Move it."
Didier Laferrière, 12 Rue Boissy-d'Anglas, eighth arrondissement.
When he walked through the door, Paul had a feeling-a cop's hunch, an almost paranormal sensation. There was something for him here.
The surgical suite was totally dark. The doctor, a little man with gray frizzy hair, was sitting behind his desk. In a neutral voice, he asked, "The police, is it? What can I do for you?"
Paul explained the situation and produced his photos. The surgeon seemed to shrink even further. He switched on his desk light and leaned over the pictures. Without a moment's hesitation, he pointed at the portrait of Anna Heymes and said, "I haven't operated on her, but I know this woman."
Paul clenched his fists. Sweet Jesus, he had hit lucky.
The surgeon went on. "She came to see me a few days ago.”
“Can you be more precise?"
"Last Monday. If you want, I can check my diary-"
"What did she want?"
"She behaved rather oddly."
"In what way?"
The surgeon shook his head. "She asked me a series of questions about the scars left by certain operations."
"What's so odd about that?"
"Nothing. It's just… either she was playacting or she's suffering from amnesia."
"Why?"
The doctor tapped his finger on the portrait of Anna Heymes. "Because she has already had surgery. At the end of the consultation, I noticed her scars. I have no idea what she wanted from me. Maybe she was thinking of suing the person who operated on her." He looked at the picture. "But whoever it was did a splendid job."
Another mark for Schiffer. In my opinion, she must be investigating her own past. And that was exactly what had happened. Anna Heymes was tracking Sema Gokalp.
Paul was drenched in sweat. It felt as though he were walking a path of fire. The target was there, in front of him, within arm's reach. "Is that all she said?" he asked. "She didn't leave an address, a phone number?"
"No. She just said, 'I'm going to have to see for myself first.' I've no idea what she meant. Who on earth is this woman?"
Without a word, Paul stood up. He grabbed a wad of Post-its from the desk and wrote down his cell phone number. "If she ever gets back in touch with you, do your best to locate her. Talk to her about her operation. About possible side effects. Make something up. Just pinpoint her, then call me. Okay?"
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Paul stopped, his fist on the door handle. "Why's that?”
“I don't know. You're all red."
Pierre Laroque, 24 Rue Maspero, sixteenth arrondissement.
Nothing.
Jean-François Skenderi, Clinique Massener, 58 Avenue Paul Doumer, sixteenth arrondissement.
Nothing.
At 2:00, Paul was crossing the Seine once more. Toward the left bank.
He had stopped using his flashing light and siren-too much of a headache-and was looking for some snatches of peace among the faces of the pedestrians, the colors of the shop fronts and the gleam of sunlight. He was amazed by all these city dwellers living out a normal day in a normal existence.
He called his lieutenants several times. Naubrel was still battling it out with the chamber of commerce in Ankara, while Matkowska was trawling through the museums, archaeological institutes, tourist offices and even UNESCO in search of the agencies that were funding work at Nemrut Dagi. At the same time, he was keeping an eye on the list of visas that the search progam had spit out, but Akarsa's name stubbornly refused to appear.
Paul was sweltering inside his own body. Fiery rashes were burning his face. A migraine was pulsating down into the nape of his neck. His heartbeat had grown so loud he could count his pulse rate. He needed to stop at a drugstore, but he kept putting that off until after the next intersection.
Bruno Simmonnet, 139 Avenue de Ségur, seventh arrondissement. Nothing.
The surgeon was a huge man, holding a bulky tomcat in his arms. Seeing them together like that, in perfect harmony, it was impossible to say who was stroking whom. Paul was putting away his pictures when the doctor remarked. "You're not the first person to show me that face."
Paul started. "Which one?"
"This one." Simonnet pointed at the Identikit portrait of Sema Gokelp.
"Who showed it to you? A police officer?"
The man nodded, his fingers still tickling his cat's neck.
Paul thought of Schiffer. "Was he middle-aged, tough looking, with silvery hair?"
"No. He was young. With scruffy hair. Like a student. He had a slight accent."
Paul took each blow like a boxer on the ropes. He had to lean against the marble mantelpiece. "Was his accent Turkish?"
"How should I know? But oriental, probably, yes."
"When did he come?"
"Yesterday morning."
"What name did he give?"
"He didn't."
"Any means of contact?"
"No. Which was strange. In the movies, you always leave your calling card, don't you?"
"I'll be back."
Paul ran to his car. He grabbed one of the photos of Türkes's funeral in which Akarsa could be seen. When he returned, he asked, "Can you see the same man in this picture?"
The surgeon pointed at the man in the corduroy jacket. "That's him. No doubt about it." He looked up. "So he's not one of your colleagues?"
Paul fished up a few scraps of cool from the depths of his soul and showed him the portrait of the redhead once again. "You told me that he asked you to identify this woman. Was it the same picture? An Identikit like this one?"
"No. It was a black-and-white photo. Of a group, in fact. On a university campus, or something like that. The quality was rather poor, but she's the same woman as in your picture. I'm sure about that."
The image of Sema Gokalp, young and valiant, amid other Turkish students, flashed before his eyes.
The only photo the Grey Wolves had. A blurred image that had cost the lives of three innocent women.
Paul drove off, leaving tire skid marks on the asphalt. He put his flashing light back on the roof and switched it on. Its gleam and the siren pierced through the bell jar of a day. Deductions poured though his mind. His heart beat in rhythm to their coursing.
The Grey Wolves were now following the same lead as he was. After three corpses, they had understood their mistake. They were now looking for the surgeon who had transformed their target.
Another posthumous victory for Schiffer. We're going to end up on the same track. I can just feel it.
Paul looked at his watch- 2:30. And only two names left on his list.
He had to get to the surgeon before the killers did. He had to find the woman before they did. Paul Nerteaux versus Azer Akarsas. The son of nobody versus the son of Asena, the white wolf.
Frédéric Gruss lived in the heights of Saint-Cloud. While Paul was driving along the fast lane toward the Bois de Boulogne, he phoned Naubrel once more.
"Still nothing from the Turks?"
"Sorry, Captain. I'm-"
"Forget it."
"What?"
"Do you still have your copies of the photos of Türkes's funeral?"
"Yes, on my computer."
"There's one where you can see the coffin right in the foreground.”
“Just a second. I'll get a pen."
"In that photo, the third person to the left is a young man in a corduroy jacket. I want you to make a blowup of his portrait and put out a bulletin in the name of-"
"Azer Akarsas?"
"You've got it."
“Is he the killer?"
Paul's throat muscles were so tense, he found it difficult to speak. "Just put out the bulletin."
"Okay. Is that all?"
"No. Go and see Bomarzo, the magistrate in charge of murder investigations. Ask him for a warrant to search the premises of Matak Limited."
"Me? But it'd be better if it was you who-"
"Tell him I sent you. Tell him I've got some hard evidence.”
“Evidence?"
"An eyewitness. Then call Matkowska and ask him for the pictures of Nemrut.”
"Of what?"
Once again, he spelled out the name and explained his thinking. "And check with him if Akarsa's name appears on the list of visa holders. Get all that together then head over to see the magistrate.”
“What if he asks me where you are?"
Paul hesitated. "Then give him this number." He read out Olivier Amien's mobile number. They can sort this shit out between themselves, he thought as he hung up. The Saint-Cloud bridge was in sight.
3:30
Boulevard de la République was quite literally glittering in the sunlight, snaking up the hill that led to Saint-Cloud. A fresh blooming of springtime, already bringing out naked shoulders and languid poses along the café terraces. What a shame. For the final act, Paul would have preferred a sky laden with menace. An apocalyptic firmament, torn by lightning and darkness.
As he drove along the boulevard, he remembered his visit to the morgue with Schiffer. How many centuries had gone by since then?
In the heights of the town, the roads were quiet and empty. The créme de la crème of leafy suburbs. A concentrated dot of vanity and wealth looking down over the Seine valley and the less desirable neighborhoods.
Paul shivered with fever, exhaustion and excitement. Brief absences punctuated his vision. Dark stars hit the back of his eyes. He was unable to fight off sleep. It was one of his weaknesses, something he had never been able to do, even when he was little and petrified, waiting for his father to come home.
His father. The image of the old man was starting to meld into that of Schiffer-the lacerations in the car seat blending into the wounds on that body covered with ash…
The sound of a horn woke him up. The light had turned green. He had fallen asleep. In a fury, he sped off and finally reached Rue des Chènes.
He turned down it, looking for number 37. The buildings were invisible, hidden behind stone walls or rows of pine trees. Insects were humming. All of nature seemed drenched with spring sun.
He found a parking space just in front of the right building: a black gate, stuck between whitewashed ramparts.
He was about to ring the bell when he noticed that the gate was ajar. An alarm started ringing in his head. This did not fit with the general atmosphere of vigilance in the neighborhood. Instinctively, Paul pulled back the Velcro strip that was keeping his gun in place.
The garden in the property was a typical one: a strip of lawn, gray trees and a gravel path. At the far end, a huge mansion house rose up with white walls and black shutters. A two-or three-car garage, with a closed swing door, stood next to it.
No dog, no servants came to meet him. Apparently, there was not the slightest movement within.
The alarm in his head started ringing louder.
He went up the three steps that led to the front door and noticed something else that was wrong. A broken window. He swallowed his saliva, then very slowly took out his 9-mm. He pushed back the pane and clambered over the sill, being careful not to crush the shards of glass on the floor. Three feet to his right, there was a hall. Silence enfolded his every move. He turned his back to the door and walked down the corridor.
To his left, a half-open door was labeled WAITING ROOM. Farther on, to his right, another door was wide open. It was presumably the surgeon's consulting room. First he noticed its walls, covered with soundproofing made of a mix of plaster and straw.
Then its floor. Photographs were scattered across it. Faces of women who were bandaged, swollen, stitched. The final confirmation of his suspicions. Someone had searched the place.
A crack could be heard from the other side of the wall.
Paul froze, his fingers gripping his gun. In a split second, he realized that he had lived only for this moment. The length of his existence did not matter. Nor did life's pleasures, hopes and disappointments. All that counted was heroic courage. He knew that the next minute would give his stay on earth its meaning. A few ounces of bravery and honor in the scales of his soul…
He was leaping toward the door when the wall exploded.
Paul was thrown to the far side of the corridor. Fire and smoke were filling it. By the time he noticed a hole no bigger than a plate, two more shots ripped through the soundproofing. The straw in the plasterboard caught fire, turning the corridor into a tunnel of flame.
Paul curled up on the floor, his neck singed by the blaze, pieces of plaster and straw tumbling down onto him.
Almost at once, silence fell. Paul looked up. In front of him, there was nothing but a heap of rubble, revealing a clear view of the surgical suite.
They were there. Three men dressed in black commando garb, strapped with cartridge belts and wearing balaclavas. Each of them was holding a SG 5040 grenade launcher. Paul had only seen them in a catalogue, but he recognized the model at once.
At their feet lay a corpse in a dressing gown. Frédéric Gruss had paid the final price for the risks of his trade.
Automatically Paul felt for his gun. But it was too late. His stomach was frothing with blood, seeping red streams into the folds of his jacket. He felt no pain he supposed this meant that he had been fatally wounded.
Sharp crunching sounds could be heard to his left. Despite his deafened ears. Paul heard with unreal clarity the feet treading down across the rubble.
A fourth man appeared in the doorway. The same black figure, hooded, gloved, but with no grenade launcher. He walked over and looked at Paul's wound. Then he pulled off his hood. His face was painted all over. The brown curves and whirls on his skin depicted the maw of a wolf. His mustache, brows and eyes were all lined with black. This had presumably been done using henna, but it looked like the makeup of a Maori warrior.
Paul recognized the man in the photograph. Azer Akarsa. He was holding a Polaroid photo: a pale oval surrounded by black hair. Anna Heymes just after her operation.
So the Wolves were now going to be able to find their prey. The hunt would go on. But without him.
The Turk knelt down. He looked straight into Paul's eyes, then softly said, "The high pressure drives them mad. Pressure wipes out pain. The last one was singing when her nose was cut off."
Paul closed his eyes. He did not really understand what was being said, but he was sure of one thing: this man knew who he was and had already been informed about Naubrel's visit to his laboratory.
In flashes, he glimpsed the wounds of the victims, the cuts on their faces. A homage to ancient stone, signed AzerAkarsa.
He felt the bubbles rise up to his lips. It was blood. When he opened his eyes again, the Wolf was pointing a.45 at his forehead.
His last thought was for Céline. And the fact that he had not had time to call her before she left for school.