The Empire Of The Wolves

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

  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.

  58

  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"

  59

  On the way out of the bar, Paul announced, "We'll split up."

  The other two cop
s 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.