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 an
cient 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."
63
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."
64
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 Empire Of The Wolves Page 30
