‘Monsieur Keyder?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘Superintendent Daquin would like to make your acquaintance and asks if you would kindly go to his office.’
‘After you.’
Third floor. He recognized the glass door. As though it were yesterday. He fingered his upper lip. Felt his moustache, now growing again, to give himself confidence. The young cop left him. Daquin, seated behind his desk, watched him come in. He doesn’t belong to me any more. It’s still my jacket. But he’s got his moustache back already.
Soleiman sat down. Daquin took a file from a drawer in his desk and pushed it over to him.
‘That’s the original of the file about you kept by the Turkish police. If you want to go back to your own country one day, you can do so more or less safely.’
Soleiman didn’t dare believe it. Placed his hand on the file.
‘How did you manage it?’
‘That’s my business.’
Soleiman opened the file and leafed through it. A kind of mist before his eyes.
‘There aren’t any photos. I haven’t kept them as a souvenir, there never were any.’
Soleiman was struck dumb. Got up, took the file, stuffed it inside his jacket and left almost at a run.
Wednesday 28 May, noon. Parish of Saint-Bernard
Press conference. The Committee officially announced the success of their action and the beginning of legalized status for the Sentier workers. The Trades Union Confederations had sent representatives, there were many journalists from the newspapers, the radio and the television. Soleiman presided from the platform. He was the hero of the day. The file, that was still there between his jacket and his shirt, gave him a sensation of liberty.
Exciting. Four months that have changed my life. Here, nobody knows me. For them I’m only a militant. A machine for thinking and speaking, and that’s all. I’ll keep the memory of the Sentier like that of a warm stomach, the atmosphere of the streets, the cafés, the workrooms. And the memory of Daquin. His hand. The weight of his body. His gaze.
Wednesday 28 May 3 p.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin on the telephone. He was looking for people who knew the French Catholic fundamentalists and were capable of talking about them in a language he could understand. In the end he came to the Jesuits. He made an appointment for the following morning with a senior member of the Order, the spokesman for the French bishops.
Thursday 29 May, noon Passage du Désir
Daquin had recalled his troops. In the absence of Lavorel they were reduced to Romero and Attali, both somewhat rested but lacking in punch. Daquin spoke to them quickly about the clue involving the Catholic fundamentalists, without giving his sources. Polite scepticism. He presented them with a summary of the various current fundamentalist attitudes, at least as far as he had understood them that morning. They took notes, they concentrated, without enthusiasm. Finally Daquin produced a map of France on which he had marked the location of fundamentalist groups with different colours indicating various shades of opinion. Pink for those closest to orthodoxy, dark red for those most hostile to the Vatican.
‘Good. There are three of us. The other police departments are not interested in my idea. Neither are you, either, but I’m your superior within the hierarchy. We’ve only time for one operation. Where shall we go?’
Attali bent over the map, suddenly interested.
‘To Rouen, obviously.’
‘I agree, to Rouen. Father Juan Roth Gomez runs a fundamentalist parish there. He was consecrated priest by Monsignor Lefebvre but left Ecône because he found the community too moderate. He’s close to the “Sedes Vacans” group who regard the Pope as heretic from the time of Vatican II. He’s a Spaniard. He’s travelled widely in Europe and has recently been staying in Germany from where his father came. On the way to Rouen, the corpses of Celebi and VL. Rouen, not far from Paris. If Agça is somewhere, he’s there. And the Pope arrives in Paris tomorrow. Romero, telephone your chum Petitjean. We’re going to call on him this afternoon. In the mean time I’m going to take you for a quick snack, to raise the morale of the troops.’
Thursday 29 May, 5.15 p.m. Rouen
Daquin and his team arrived in an unmarked car outside a modest little house in a very quiet deserted street. Petitjean had done what he could to provide them with some information but in fact nobody knew anything about this house and its occupants, a priest and his old housekeeper. True, there were fiery sermons on Sundays in the nearby parish. It appeared that certain parishioners came from Paris every week to hear them. But the priest apparently led a blameless life and had a very good reputation among all the local tradespeople.
‘We’ve got no choice. We’re going in blind. Attalli, you’ve got fifteen minutes to find the ways out at the back and a point from which you can watch them. In a quarter of an hour we’re going in. If nothing’s happening after ten minutes, come and find us inside.’
Romero got out of the car to have a smoke.
*
Daquin rang the bell. An old woman who was rather stout and walked with difficulty, wearing a black smock and carpet slippers, opened the door.
‘Madame, we’re from the police, and we’d like to talk to Father Roth Gomez.’
‘Come in, gentlemen. He’s working in the dining-room, preparing his next sermon.’
She took them to the dining-room. Daquin signalled to Romero to make a quick tour of the house.
The small dining-room looked on to a garden, of which only part was visible, rough grass and three apple trees. The furniture was heavy, Henri II style, as sold by the Galeries Barbès. On the big table was a pile of books, two pads of paper and ten or so felt-tip pens of different colours. As they came in a man stood up. Tall, sturdy, young, mop of black hair, very white complexion. And a gaze … fanatical, thought Daquin, He was wearing a worn cassock.
The old woman made the introductions.
‘Father, some police officers who wish to speak to you.’
‘Sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’ Spanish accent.
‘Do you know Ali Agça?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He folded his hands. ‘He’s more than a friend. Let us say a spiritual brother.’
‘Is he here?’
‘No, not at the moment. He’s away for a few days. But he was here last Tuesday. Why these questions? Has some misfortune befallen him?’
Romero returned at that moment and indicated to Daquin that the house was empty.
‘No, not as far as I know. Has he spoken to you of his wish to kill the Pope?’
‘Monsieur, we no longer have a Pope. And it is truly our misfortune.’
‘Let’s not quibble. I mean Pope John-Paul II.’
‘The man you call John-Paul II is a heretic, a secret agent in the pay of the communists. If someone were to kill him, it wouldn’t be such a great misfortune. Since the so-called Vatican Council II the communists have infiltrated a whole section of the Catholic church. Fortunately …’
Attali came into the dining-room and leant over to Daquin: Kashguri’s Renault 5 was parked in the garden.
‘… some of us still embody the true faith, the church of former times will live again, you’ll see. I myself am at God’s disposal. I shall do what He commands me to do in order to restore the true church.’
‘I’m sure of that, Father. I don’t doubt it for a single moment. And do you also know Osman Kashguri, a friend of Agça?’
‘I don’t know his name. But someone came, about a month ago, who was sent by a friend of Ali. Unfortunately this man was a henchman of the devil.’
‘What has happened to him?’
‘I buried him in the garden.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s what I did. Where else would you want me to bury him? Not in consecrated ground, surely?’
‘Of course not. But if you buried him, he must have been dead. How did he die?’
‘God took pity on him.’
‘Father, I don’t doubt divine pity for one moment, but could you be a little more precise?’
‘After a discussion with Ali, this man asked me for hospitality. I saw at once that evil was within him. And I was afraid that he would have a bad influence on Ali, who is a pure man. But the Church is a refuge. A man of God cannot refuse aid and succour when a sinner asks him for it. I arranged for him to have the bedroom next to mine. At first everything was more or less all right. And then he began to have trances. He sweated, he trembled. He seemed to be suffering deeply. It was the first time I had seen at close quarters a man possessed of the devil. I overcame him, I fastened him down to his bed, I brought him holy water and I blessed him several times a day. At one moment he began to shout. Ali and I gagged him. I didn’t want the neighbours to know that in my house there was a man possessed of the devil. One morning I went in for the first blessing and I found him dead. I thanked God for having delivered him from his torment. Ali helped me and we buried him in the garden.’
‘Did Agça know that he was fastened to his bed?’
‘Of course. Sometimes he held conversations with him so that he would keep still.’
‘Didn’t Agça tell you that he was a heroin addict and didn’t you want to call in a doctor?’
‘A doctor for the body can do nothing when the soul is ill. And his soul was very ill. Drugs are an absolute evil. Believe me, if my prayers and my blessings were not able to help him, and my soul is very pure, then there was nothing to be done.’
‘When was he delivered from his sufferings?’
‘Last Sunday, just before the service, and I buried him before vespers.’
‘Could you show us where you buried the body?’
‘Why? I buried him very decently, and I performed all the necessary rites. And God is merciful.’
‘I don’t doubt that. But we must be able to identify the body, since you do not know his name. In order to inform the family, they too would like to pray for him, perhaps.’
‘You are right. Follow me.’
*
Daquin, standing beneath an apple tree, gazed for a long moment at the dead body of Kashguri, stretched out on the grass. Clad in a strange white nightshirt, very full, fastened at the neck and the wrists, reaching down to his knees. Provided no doubt by the housekeeper. He had been wrapped in a white sheet and buried beneath a thin layer of earth, fifteen centimetres deep beneath an apple tree in blossom. Terribly thin, as though mummified, shoulder-length hair, black rings under his eyes, his skin streaked with green. Suffering. A drugged tramp in the midst of a withdrawal crisis. Only his hands had barely changed, long and thin, folded over his chest, they still gave an impression of strength, as they had done that day in the office. Daquin thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt ferociously alive.
Romero, standing beside him, lit a small Tuscan cigar.
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him.’
‘He doesn’t look much like the person he was when I met him. Handsome man, rather impressive. I must inform Anna of his death. She might want to arrange a funeral for him, a normal one, let us say. Romero, call the police in Rouen, let’s have done with this mad priest as soon as possible. I feel very uncomfortable here.’
Friday 30 May, 5 p.m. Champs-Elysées
The crowd had gathered along the avenue, in order to get a glimpse of the Holy Father. A crowd, well … not really a crowd. Two or three rows of spectators on each side, all along the avenue, behind the protective barriers. Unmarked police cars drove up and down the whole time, on the wide pavements where traffic and parking had been prohibited. State security police officers every twenty metres, facing the crowd. Scouts everywhere. The security machine was in place.
Waiting. A helicopter landed in the place de l’Etoile. The Pope stepped out. An hour and a half late. It had been an order from the Official Travel people. He got into an open car and began to go down the avenue, standing, waving to the crowd. Cheering, people crossed themselves. At the same time, at the Rond-Point, a police car braked suddenly. Two inspectors got out, revolvers in their hands. They had just seen a man who had been sitting on an electricity transformer stand up and hoist himself into a tree, a sports kit-bag over his shoulder. Whistles blew, plainclothes police and scouts converged from all sides. The man dropped down from the tree. An inspector fired into the air. Two other shots answered him. Scuffle. Two scouts and a spectator were very slightly injured. The man disappeared into the crowd. The kit-bag remaining in the tree contained an old German MP 44. Later the fingerprints of Ali Agça would be identified. His chances of killing the Pope with that type of weapon, and at that distance, said the experts, were very slim.
A reporter for Agence France Presse, alerted by the skirmish, asked some inspectors for information. It was a lone gunman, he had been dealt with.
Telegram from Agence France Presse: A terrorist attempts to fire at the Pope.
Astonishment and excitement in the editorial departments. The press office at police headquarters was overwhelmed with telephone calls. Categorical denial. It had been an unfortunate mistake. We arrested ‘a man with a gun’, that was to say a pickpocket and not a terrorist. Shots for a pickpocket? The press blamed the nervousness of the security services for the incident.
*
All the clandestine workers in the Sentier were given legal status. But at first the identity cards arrived in dribs and drabs. Then, when the legalization was well on the way, the military coup d’état in Turkey had just taken place. And everyone was obsessed by the violence of the repression there. In the end there was no great celebration to fête our victory. And that’s my one remaining regret from the spring of 1980.
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
Ali Agça did not succeed in assassinating the Pope on 13 May 1981 in Rome. Neither did the fanatical priest who attacked him with a bayonet on 12 May 1982 at Fatima.
Daquin never saw Soleiman again.
Anna Beric and Meillant are living in the Bahamas, where they are bored.
The area of the Golden Crescent – Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran – now produces 70 per cent of the heroin consumed in Europe, and 20 per cent of that destined for the North American market. It offers serious competition to the Golden Triangle, Burma and Thailand.
About the Author
DOMINIQUE MANOTTI teaches nineteenth-century Economic History. ROUGH TRADE, her first novel, was awarded the top prize for the best thriller of the year by the French Crime Writers Association. Her other books include Cop and To Our Horses!
Copyright
First published in United Kingdom 2001
by Arcadia Books Books, 15–16 Nassau Street, London, W1W 7AB
This ebook edition first published in 2011
All rights reserved
Originally published by Éditions du Seuil as Sombre Sentier
Copyright © Dominique Manotti, 1995
Translation from French © Margaret Crosland and Elfreda Powell, 2001
The right of Dominique Manotti to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–1–90812–922–2
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