‘I’m not completely certain.’
Daquin heaves an inward sigh of relief. He would not have liked to kick him out.
‘Can it be enlarged and made dearer?’
‘Yes, it can be done tomorrow. But even so, let me know tonight. We can confirm it tomorrow.’
‘I think it’s Ali Agça.’
‘Fine. But that means absolutely nothing to me.’
Soleiman leans back on the couch, solemnly.
‘I knew him in Istanbul. He’s the same age as me, perhaps a year or two older. He was studying political science at the university I wanted to go to. He was a Grey Wolf, and a real professional killer.’
Smile. ‘And weren’t you a killer, not a real one, not a pro?’ Soleiman frowns. ‘Go on.’
‘He killed several people, always using the same technique in the street, at point-blank range, right in the heart. He was arrested for the assassination of the editor in chief of Milliyet, a leftish newspaper, in 1979. Just at about the time I left Turkey, he escaped from gaol in Istanbul. If he’s here, it’s to kill and to kill people like me what’s more.’
‘Are you afraid?’
Soleiman stands up, exasperated. For years and years now he’s lived with this fear in his gut. In his family, in his village, in Istanbul. Fear too when, that evening, he walked in Yeniçeriler Cadesi, with his gun in his pocket, to meet the man he was going to kill. How can a cop like Daquin understand something like that …
‘A Fascist prick doesn’t frighten me and you can go to hell.’
‘Sit down. I’m being serious now. I’ve noted everything down. Look at the other photos.’
Soleiman shuffles through them distractedly. He’d been reliving the nightmare, the man crumpling to the ground, him starting to run, the cop barring his way, him aiming at the cop, firing at him twice, at random, running into the black night of winding streets of old Istanbul, for what seemed hours and hours. Daquin brings him a coffee.
‘Make an effort and listen. These photos were taken from opposite the sandwich shop you told me about, not of the straightforward customers outside. A Yugoslav dealer we arrested has formally recognized a Turk who’d delivered drugs to him in this series. Look, it’s this one.’ Daquin takes out a photo from the packet. ‘Goes by the name of Celebi. In this same series, you’ve recognized four people from the Grey Wolves. I draw two conclusions from this. First, your lead’s a good one. There are drugs hanging about this particular shop. Secondly, it confirms that there’s a close link between drugs and the extreme right. And as far as you’re concerned, that’s good news, isn’t it? You can relax a bit.’
Soleiman leans back on the sofa, eyes closed.
‘I’m bushed.’
‘Sol. You’re going to spend the night here. You can’t leave in this rain — it isn’t going to stop — not in the rags you’re wearing. Tomorrow morning, I’ll see what I can find you in the way of clothes. Come on. Let’s go to bed.’
5
8 a.m Passage du Désir
All the photos taken in the last two days were spread out on the table. Daquin, Attali and Romero were carefully arranging them in two series: the sandwich bar and the accessory shop, in chronological order.
Enter a fair-haired young man, on the dumpy side, white shirt, dark suit, tie, brief-case and tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles. He introduced himself as Lavorel, of the Finance Squad.
‘We were expecting you. My chief told us yesterday that you’d be coming. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
He looked surprised.
Daquin went over to the machine, made coffee for everyone. Then he began to re-examine the photos. The classification was finished.
‘First shop: only Turks or similar. Second shop: much more mixed clientele. We speculate that the first shop is used as a rallying point for the supply network, and for the moment we won’t discuss that. It’s too serious and we haven’t enough information. The second could be used for putting the drugs into circulation, which, per se, involves more French than Turks, and third-or fourth-rank roles. We’re going to take soundings there. You two, you go and hang about in the area. Choose someone who comes out of the shop who might look like a dealer. Stop and search him — some distance away, and be as discreet as you can. If it’s a dealer, bring him here. If you don’t find any drugs, make your excuses. And, most important, don’t make any mistakes. Good luck.’
*
Daquin and Lavorel were left on their own.
‘You’ve read my report on Bostic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you familiar with the Sentier’s professional underworld?’
‘No way. For the last three years I’ve been in Finance, working on the misdemeanours of members of the Stock Exchange. My presence here, so I understand, is the result of some compromise among the high-ups. Some are absolutely for a clean-up in the Sentier, so as not to leave the territory completely free for the people demanding the legalization of illegal immigrants. Others think it’s bullshit, and we should let it stay as a sector that’s working well and can’t do so without illegal labour. So they agreed on designating someone, but they took on some naïve young guy who knows nothing, and who’ll get himself tied up in knots, very likely. So, here I am.’
‘And what’s your opinion of the whole business?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. That’s what I see my role of cop as, and I can tell you I’ll bust a gut to get something out of this dungheap.’
‘You’ve a curious way of expressing yourself for a suit-and-tie man.’
‘I haven’t always been one.’
‘Ah, right. And what did you do before you were in Finance?’
‘I was a hooligan.’
A moment’s silence.
‘I mean, what did you do in the police before you were in finance.’
‘It was my first posting.’
‘Would it be very indiscreet to ask why you’re in Finance?’
‘No, it’s not indiscreet. I’ve always hated people you call suit-and-tie men. And I’ve no wish to go yob-bashing in high-rises.’
‘Well, as you’ll see in the Sentier, neither the workers nor bosses are exactly suit-and-tie men.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘We’ve organized a small office for you, next to this one. I’d like you to keep me posted on your work every day. And pop in to say hallo. Let me know who owns those two shops at 5 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin.’
9 a.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries
Early that morning Santoni parked a 4L van, converted into a surveillance vehicle, with two-way mirror side windows, just in front of the window of the Aratoff Ballets Company in rue des Petites-Ecuries, and set himself up more or less comfortably inside, with cigarettes and cans of beer close to hand. At nine o’clock precisely, a large woman opened up the agency office, went in and sat down behind a counter, at the back on the left. Santoni was unable to see what she was doing. Towards ten, a man and another woman were in the building. They hadn’t gone through the street entrance. At twelve-thirty, the fat woman came out, locked the door behind her. There was no longer anyone in the offices. There hadn’t been a single customer all morning.
Santoni unfolded himself carefully. He was stiff all over. And followed the woman. Not far — to a café-brasserie fifty metres away. She sat at a very small table on the terrace. Santoni went in and found a seat right next to her. She ordered steak and French fries and a glass of red wine. Santoni gave her the once-over. A big fat lump, well and truly past her fiftieth birthday, with short, permed, mousy hair, large breasts which sagged on to a big belly, swollen legs, feet bulging over the tops of her shoes. A small white blouse and navy-blue pleated skirt. And between her breasts a cross and a medallion of the Virgin of Lourdes jangled on a gold chain. She could have passed for a schoolgirl from Sainte-Marie de Neuilly who’d grown poor and ugly. At about one-thirty, the lump rose. A little saunter as far as Montholon Square. Santoni found it was a good idea.