Half an hour later the boss put his pistol away and called the police station.
‘I’ve been occupied.’
‘Who by?’
‘Ten or so workers.’
‘Where from?’
‘They’re my workers.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘There’s a stranger with them.’
Soleiman, in a loud voice: ‘I’m the official representative of the Defence Committee for Turks in France.’
Nobody at the commissariat was keen to rush over: Dispute over working conditions, negotiate. Phone down.
Soleiman smiled, they began to talk. The boss, by name Gribsky, admitted in the end that he was completely ruined; he’d lost everything at the races, his own money and the money for the workers’ pay, and he’d been counting, he said, on the pile of finished garments at the back of the workroom for the workers’ wages. But there now, the Turks were preventing delivery, twice already the people who’d ordered them had been stopped from collecting them … The girls laughed: that old horror had been counting on the delivery to recoup what he’d lost at the races, fancy that! The Turks warned Soleiman that they would dismantle the machines that night and pay themselves out of the proceeds.
Soleiman to the boss: ‘Sell your business, lease, machines and stock. You’ll pay the wages and still have something left over. Otherwise, criminal bankruptcy, theft of machines, anything could happen … and you’ll be left with nothing.’
Gribsky went off in search of someone who could mount a rescue. The workers settled down to occupy the workroom. A meeting was arranged for the next morning at the Committee office.
9.30 a.m. Drugs Squad office
‘Théo, I’ve read your last two reports very carefully, as I did with the others in fact …’
Daquin waited.
‘I’ve been thinking about this plan for a raid when the raincoats are delivered. We’ll work together on the details. I agree we should play it that way. But you realize the dangerous nature of the operation, the many unknown factors …’
Still no reaction.
‘This morning I had a phone call from the chief secretary at the minister’s office. Yesterday one of your inspectors contacted two deputies, asking for interviews …’
‘Yes, Inspector Attali, on my instructions.’
‘OK. But the minister’s actual orders are clear: we have to forget the deputies. You’ve got no firm evidence against them … and that will free resources you can use to concentrate on the Turkish network.’
With a laugh. ‘Agreed.’
‘Aren’t you going to protest? Aren’t you going to tell me I’m not fulfilling my role, not protecting the work of my departments?’
‘No, chief. I’d expected it. I’m even surprised you didn’t say this earlier, and I’ll deal with it. On the other hand I’d like to know if the minister has anything to say about Kashguri.’
‘Yes, I was coming to that. We’ll drop any action against him as well, as long as there’s no formal evidence against him. Same treatment as for the deputies.’
‘Very well. Your orders will be respected. No action as long as we have no firm evidence. By the way, and obviously there’s no connection: I’ve got several people who’ve seen the identikit portrait of the man who killed my concierge and they’ve formally identified him as Kashguri’s manservant. What shall I do about it?’
3p.m. At the Committee
The little windowless office was crowded with people. Soleiman had just reached rue des Maraîchers. He was drinking coffee at the little stall further down the corridor. He was happy.
A Turkish worker came to see him.
‘My name’s Yavouz. The boss owes me 6,000 francs. He sacked me a few days ago and doesn’t want to pay me. The Committee must help me.’
‘Have you got proof?’
‘Proof, what proof? I work illegally, I’ve never had a payslip.’
‘Let’s go. But not on our own.’
Fifteen or so Turks set off in a group and knocked discreetly on the workroom door. The boss, who wasn’t suspicious, opened it. Peaceful invasion, led by Yavouz. The boss, who was a Yugoslav, shouted insults and tried to snatch a pair of scissors to defend himself. Two workers came close to stop him. The tension dropped a notch.
‘You owe Yavouz 6,000 francs.’
‘That man? I’ve never set eyes on him. I’ll call the police.’
He grabbed the telephone and got the commissariat. He spoke French very badly. The man at the other end didn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
‘Isn’t there someone around who can speak French better?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put him on to me.’
The boss handed the telephone to Soleiman, who explained: labour dispute, unpaid wages.
‘Is there any fighting?’
‘No, none.’
‘Very well, sort it out,’ said the duty officer finally, and hung up.
‘The police won’t come,’ said Soleiman to the boss.
‘Yes they will.’
‘Very well, let’s wait for them.’
Everyone settled down, they played draughts, someone went to get coffee. The boss drank some along with everyone else.
Two hours later the boss realized the police weren’t coming. After all, maybe he did know Yavouz. He even remembered him. He’d worked there the week before. They began to negotiate. The boss offered 1,000 francs in cash at once. 3,000, no less. 2,000? OK for 2,000. Agreed. Yavouz was delighted. Everybody left. The boss watched them go downstairs. Goodbye, Monsieur Committee.
23
9a.m. At the Committee
Soleiman was drinking coffee with four workers, two men and two girls, from rue des Maraîchers. The others had stayed behind to occupy the workroom.
Gribsky arrived accompanied by a flamboyant Lebanese, Hammad, who had parked his Mercedes on the pavement in front of the main door to the church. He stroked the girls’ cheeks, called them darling, and took bundles of banknotes out of his black dispatch case.
The telephone rang. A Turk.
‘Is that the Committee? Come quickly, rue d’Hauteville … The boss wants to sack a Turk.’
‘Impossible for me to come now, call back later.’
Hammad owned fashion boutiques in the Sentier and on the Mediterranean coast. He was tempted by the adventure of production. Intense discussions about the price of the machines, the stocks of finished garments, the back pay owing, the lease. No written document, no accountancy statements. In the end Gribsky, Hammad and the workers came to an agreement. A settlement was drawn up by Hammad, countersigned by Gribsky, the workers and Soleiman, on behalf of the Committee. Bundles of notes changed hands. Everyone went to celebrate at the local café, ogling the Mercedes on the way.
Soleiman went back to the office. Telephone.
‘It’s the Turk in rue d’Hauteville. OK, it’s sorted out, no need to come.’
‘And how was it sorted out?’
‘Well, the boss had attacked the worker on the head with a pair of scissors, the worker then cut his hand, right through. The manageress called the police The boss said it was an accident, the cops left. Both men are in hospital and the boss has said that the worker would keep his job.’
12.30 p.m. Avenue des Champs-Elysées
Sener was going up the avenue from the Rond-Point towards the Lido, accompanied by two members of the embassy staff. He was much too preoccupied to enjoy the good weather. He was in trouble on all fronts. On Monday Paulette had been arrested, the police asked the embassy for permission to question him and his political friends reproached him vehemently for compromising himself in various forms of trafficking which didn’t serve the cause … On Tuesday Paulette’s husband, a senior police inspector, was also arrested. Today he himself had an appointment in a few moments’ time in an attempt to negotiate his withdrawal from business affairs and his return to Turkey. It was going to be difficult.