"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."
60
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.
61
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 presenc
e 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.
62
"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 n
ose 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."
The Empire Of The Wolves Page 29
