The Empire Of The Wolves

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

  Sema took the bar. Drawing away from the pier, she maneuvered the boat between the other vessels. She followed the first wall, swerved around its far end, then went along the second one, as far as the lighthouse. There was not a sound as she passed. The only presence that broke through the shadows came from a single distant cargo ship. Under the lights of the projectors, beaded with dew, shadows flittered. For a second, she felt at one with these gilded ghosts.

  She drew the boat up by the rocks, moored it and went over to the lighthouse. Without any difficulty, she forced open the door. The interior was cramped, icy and hostile to any human presence. The lamp was automatic and did not seem to need anyone's help. At the top of the tower, the huge projector revolved slowly on its pivot, giving off long groans.

  Sema turned on her flashlight. The circular wall beside her was filthy and damp. The floor was dotted with puddles. Sema could hear the rushing of the water beneath her feet. It made her think of a stone question mark at the end of the world. A place of total solitude. The ideal location.

  She grabbed Kürsat's phone and punched in Azer Akarsa's number. There was a ring. Then an answer. Silence. After all, it was only five in the morning…

  In Turkish, she said, "It's Sema."

  The silence continued. Then Azer Akarsa's voice sounded in her ear. "Where are you?"

  "In Istanbul."

  "Do you have anything to suggest?"

  "A meeting. Just you and me. On neutral ground."

  "Where?"

  "At Haydarpasa station. On the second seawall, there's a lighthouse."What time?"

  "Now. You come alone. By boat."

  There was a smile in his voice. "So you can pick me off like a rabbit?”

  “That won't solve my problems."

  "I don't see what can solve your problems."

  "You'll find out when you get here."

  "Where's Kürsat?"

  The number had presumably flashed up on the screen. There was no point lying.

  "He's dead. I'll be expecting you. At Haydarpasa. Alone. And rowing."

  She hung up and looked out through the barred window. The seaport was waking up. A slow movement, groggy from dawn, had started. A ship slid down the rails and rose up in the waves, before gliding under the arches of the brightly lit warehouses.

  Her observation post was perfect. From there, she could keep an eye on both the train station and the jetties, the pier and the first seawall. No one could sneak up on her.

  Shivering, she sat down on the steps.

  Cigarette.

  Her mind wandered. A memory rose up, for no apparent reason. The warmth of plaster on her skin. The strips of gauze on her tormented flesh. The unbearable itching under the dressings. She remembered her convalescence, between waking and sleeping, dozy with sedatives. And above all the shock of seeing her new face, swollen fit to burst, black and blue with bruises, covered with dried scabs…

  They'd pay for that.

  5:15.

  The cold bit into her almost like a burn. Sema stood up, stamping her feet and flapping her arms to ward off the numbness. Those recollections of her operation brought her back to her latest discovery, a few hours before, at Istanbul Central Hospital. In reality, it had merely been a confirmation. She could now remember clearly that day in March 1999 in London. A mild inflammation of the colon, which had forced her to have X-rays done. And then to accept the truth.

  How had they dared do that to her? Mutilate her for life?

  That was why she had fled.

  That was why she was going to murder all of them.

  5:30.

  The cold dug into her bones. Her blood flowed toward her vital organs, gradually abandoning her extremities to chilblains and frostbite. Before long, she would be paralyzed.

  Mechanically, she walked as far as the door. She left the lighthouse stiffly and forced herself to liven up her legs by walking along the wall. The only source of heat left was her own blood. She had to make it circulate, to fill her entire body once more…

  Voices could be heard in the distance. Sema looked up. Some fishermen were landing on the first wall. She had not foreseen that. Not so early, at least.

  Through the darkness, she could see their lines already flicking across the waters. Were they really fishermen?

  She looked at her watch- 5:45.

  She would go in a few minutes. She could not wait for Azer Akarsa any longer. Instinctively she knew that wherever he was in Istanbul, half an hour would be enough for him to reach the station. If he needed more time than that, then it was because he was organizing something, preparing a trap.

  A slapping sound. In the shadows, the wake of a rowing boat opened out over the water. It passed the first wall. A figure was bending above the oars with slow full, regular movements. A ray of moonlight flickered across his corduroy-clad shoulders.

  At last, the boat touched the rocks.

  He got to his feet, picking up the mooring rope. His gestures and the sounds were so banal that they became almost unreal. Sema could not believe that the man whose sole aim in life was to kill her was now just two yards away. Despite the lack of light, she could make out his worn, olive green corduroy jacket, his thick scarf his mop of hair… When he bent over to throw her the rope, she even caught a fleeting glimpse of his mauve eyes.

  She caught the rope and tied it to her own. Azer was about to step onto land when she stopped him, brandishing her Glock. "The tarpaulins," she whispered.

  He looked over at the old sheets piled in the boat.

  "Lift them up."

  lie did so. The bottom was empty.

  "Come here. Slowly" She stepped back, to allow him onto the wall. She motioned to him to lift his arms. With her left hand, she frisked him. No gun.

  "I'm playing by the rules," he murmured.

  She pushed him toward the door, then followed him. When she went inside, he was already sitting on the iron steps.

  A transparent sachet had appeared in his hands. "A chocolate?"

  Sema did not reply.

  He took one out and lifted it to his lips. "Diabetes," he said apologetically. "My insulin treatment causes drops in my blood sugar level. It's impossible to find the right dose. Several times a week, I get violent attacks of hypoglycemia, which are worsened by strong emotion. So I need sugar."

  The wrapping paper glittered in his hands. Sema thought of the Mai-son du Chocolat, of Paris and Clothilde. Another world.

  "In Istanbul, I buy marzipan wrapped in chocolate. A specialty of a confectioner in Beyoglu. In Paris, I found Jikolas…" He delicately placed the packet on the metal structure. Whether it was feigned or genuine, his coolness was impressive. The lighthouse slowly filled with lead blue light. The day was starting to come up while the pivot at the top continued to moan.

  "Without these chocolates." he added. "I'd never have found you.”

  “You never did find me."

  A smile. He slid his hand once more toward his jacket.

  Sema lifted her gun.

  Azer slowed down his movement, then produced a black-and-white photograph. A simple group shot of students on a campus. " Bogaziçi University April 1999," he commented. "The only photo that exists of you. Of the old you. I mean…"

  Suddenly a lighter appeared in his hand. The flame burst into the darkness, then bit slowly into the glossy paper, giving off a strong chemical smell.

  "Few people can claim to have known you after that period, Sema. Especially as you constantly changed your name, your appearance, your country…"

  He was still holding the crackling picture. The sparkling pink flames flashed over his face. She thought she was having one of her hallucinations. It was maybe the start of an attack… But she was wrong. The killer's face was simply flickering in the fire.

  "A complete mystery" he went on. "In some ways, that's what cost three women their lives," he stared at the blaze in his fingers. "They writhed in agony. For a long time. A very long time…"

  He finally dropped
the photo, which fell into a puddle of water.

  "I should have guessed you'd had surgery. It was a logical step for you. The final metamorphosis…" He stared down at the still-steaming pool. "We're the best in our different fields, Sema. What do you have to offer?"

  She sensed that he did not see her as an enemy, but as a rival. Even better, as his double. This pursuit had become far more than a mere contract. It was a personal challenge. A journey through the looking glass.

  On an impulse, she provoked him. "We're just tools, toys in the babas' hands."

  Azer frowned. His face grew taut. "No, just the opposite," he murmured. "I use them to serve our cause. Their money…"

  "We're their slaves."

  Irritation crossed his face. Then he suddenly yelled, "What do you want?" He threw his chocolates to the ground. "What do you have to offer?"

  "To you? Nothing. I want to talk to God in person."

  PART XII

  73

  Ismail Kudseyi was standing in the rain in the gardens of his property in Yeniköy.

  Beside the patio, among the reeds, he stared at the river.

  The Asian side stood out in the distance, like a slender ribbon being frayed by the downpour. It was over a thousand yards away, and not a single vessel was in sight. The old man felt safe, out of range of any snipers.

  After Azer's phone call, he had felt the need to go there. To plunge his hand in those silvery folds and soak his fingers with green foam. It was an imperious, almost physical craving.

  Leaning on his stick, he walked along the parapet and cautiously went down the steps that led directly into the water. A salty smell assailed him; the spray soaked him at once. The river was in a frenzy, but no matter how agitated the Bosporus was, there were always secret hiding places at the foot of the rocks, carved niches of grasses, where the waves rolled up in multicolored glints.

  Even today, at seventy-four, Kudseyi went back to this place when he needed to think. It was his real home. He had learned to swim there. He had caught his first fish. Lost his first ball made of tied-up rags that came undone in contact with the water, like the bandages of a childhood that had never entirely healed…

  The old man looked at his watch- 9:00. Where were they?

  He went back up the steps and contemplated his kingdom: the gardens around his house. Along the crimson-red enclosure, which completely excluded the outside world, forests of bamboo shuffled like feathers, ruffled by the slightest gust of wind; stone lions with folded wings languished on the steps leading to the front door; swans threaded their way across circular pools.

  He was about to go inside when he heard the noise of a motor. Because of the rain, it was more of a vibration under his skin than a real sound. He turned around and spotted a boat mounting to the assault of each wave, then flapping down with a jolt, digging out two furrows of foam behind it.

  Azer was driving, with his jacket done up to his neck. Beside him, Sema looked tiny, wrapped up in the flapping folds of her poncho. He knew that she had altered her face. But even at that distance, he recognized the way she stood. That slightly cocky air he had noticed twenty years back, among all those other children.

  Azer and Sema. The killer and the thief.

  His sole offspring. His sole enemies.

  74

  When he moved off, the gardens came to life.

  The first bodyguard appeared from a thicket. The second came from behind a lime tree. Two others materialized on the gravel drive. All of them were armed with MP7s, a close-defense gun loaded with subsonic shells capable of piercing such body armor as titanium or Kevlar at a distance of fifty yards. At least so the merchant had told him. But did it all have the slightest sense? At his age, the enemies he feared most did not travel at the speed of sound and did not pierce polycarbon. They were inside him, carrying out their patient work of destruction.

  He followed the path. The men at once gathered around him, forming a human shield. It was always the same. His existence was that of a precious jewel. But the jewel had lost its sparkle. He wandered around like a house prisoner, never going beyond the limits of his gardens, always surrounded by his men.

  He headed toward the mansion-one of the last yalis in Yeniköy. A summer house, made of wood, by the waterfronts, on tarred piles. This lofty palace. decked with turrets, had the haughtiness of a citadel, but also the nonchalant simplicity of a fisherman's hut.

  The weather-beaten laths on the roof gave off sharp reflections, as vibrant as a mirror. But the façades soaked up the light, producing somber glints of infinite softness. All around this building, there was an atmosphere of transience, of floating, or departure. The sea air, the worn wood and slapping waters made the old man think of perpetual travel, of summer holidays.

  Yet when he drew nearer and examined the details of that oriental façade-the latticework on the patios, the suns on the balconies, the stars and crescents of the windows-he saw that this sophisticated palace was in fact quite the opposite. It was an elaborate, well-anchored, stable environment. The tomb he had chosen. A wooden sepulchre with a seashell's hush, where he could watch death approach while listening to the river…

  In the hall, Ismail Kudseyi took off his oilskin and boots. Then he put on his felt slippers and a jacket of Indian silk before examining himself in the mirror.

  His face was his sole object of pride.

  Time had inflicted its inevitable ravages, but beneath the skin, the bone structure still held up. It had risen to his defense, stretching his flesh and pulling at his features. More now than ever, he had the profile of a stag, with his jutting jaw and that perpetual pout of disdain on his lips.

  He removed a comb from his pocket and tidied his hair. He was smoothing down his gray locks when he suddenly realized what he was doing, and stopped. He was being careful about his appearance for them. Because he was dreading seeing them. Because he was afraid of confronting the real meaning behind all those years…

  ***

  After the 1980 coup d'état, he had had to go into exile in Germany. When he came back in 1983, the situation in Turkey had calmed down, but most of his fellows in arms, the Grey Wolves, were in prison. In his isolation, Ismail Kudseyi refused to abandon the cause. On the contrary, he secretly reopened the training camps and set up his own personal army. He was going to give birth to a new generation of Grey Wolves. Even better, he was going to train a better race of Wolf, who would serve both his political aims and criminal activities.

  So he left for Anatolia to choose the children of his foundation personally. He organized the camps, watched the youngsters being trained, kept files on them so as to select an elite group. Soon, he was totally absorbed. Even while he was beginning to take over the opium market, exploiting the opening left by the revolution that was going on in Iran, this baba was interested above all in bringing up his children.

  He felt a visceral complicity develop with these peasant children, who reminded him of the street urchin he had once been. He preferred being with them to spending time with his own children whom he had had late in life with the daughter of a former minister and who were now studying at Oxford University or in Berlin-his privileged heirs who had become strangers to him.

  When he came back home, he shut himself up in his yali and studied each file, each personality. He weighed up their talents and gifts, but also their will to raise themselves up, to tear away from their stony origins.

  He sought out the most promising profiles the ones he would support with grants, then bring into his own clan.

  His quest gradually turned into an obsession, a mania. The pretense of a nationalistic cause was no longer enough to hide his own ambition. What excited him was molding human lives from a distance. Manipulating destinies, like an invisible demiurge.

  Soon, two names were to interest him more than the others. A boy and a girl. Two children of pure promise.

  Azer Akarsa came from a village near the ancient site of Nemrut Dagi. He was exceptionally gifted. When only sixtee
n, he was already a hardened fighter and a brilliant student. But most of all, he displayed a real passion for old Turkey and nationalist convictions. He had enrolled in the secret Adiyaman camp and had signed up for commando training. He was already planning on signing up for the army so as to fight on the Kurdish front.

  And yet. Azer had a handicap. He was diabetic. But Kudseyi decided that this weak point would not prevent him from living out his destiny as a Wolf. He swore to provide him with the best possible treatment at all times.

  The other file concerned a certain Sema Hunsen, age fourteen. Born amid the rocks of Gaziantep, she had succeeded in winning a place at school with a state grant. Superficially, she was just another young, intelligent Turk set on breaking with her origins. But she wanted to go further than that and emigrate. At the Gaziantep Idealist Club, Sema was the only girl. She had applied for a course at the camp in Kayseri so as to be with a boy from her village called Kürsat Milihit.

  He had at once been attracted by this teenager. He adored her headstrong wildness. her desire to better her condition. Physically, she was rather a chubby redhead, with a peasantlike appearance. To look at her, you would never have guessed how gifted she was, or how politically motivated. Except for her stare, which she threw into your face like a stone.

  Kudseyi was sure that Azer and Sema would turn out to be far more than mere scholarship students, or anonymous soldiers serving the extreme right-wing cause or his network of organized crime. They would be his protégés. But they would not know this. He would help them from a distance, from the shadows.

  The years went by and the two chosen ones lived up to their promise. At the age of twenty-two, Azer had earned a master's degree in physics and chemistry at Istanbul University; then two years later, an international business degree in Munich. Meanwhile, Sema was seventeen, had left Galatarasay school with full honors and had gone to the Robert College in Istanbul. She spoke fluent Turkish, French, English and German.