"Where's her husband?"
"Back home."
"The other workers?"
"Forget this business. You're too square-headed for this kind of dung heap."
"Stop talking in riddles."
"In the good old days, everything was clear-cut. There were frontiers between the various camps. But now they no longer exist."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Talat Gurdilek paused. Wisps of steam were still concealing his face. He finally said, "If you want to know more, ask the police."
Schiffer started. "The police? What police?"
"I've already told all this to the boys at the Louis-Blanc station." The burning of the mint suddenly seemed more intense.
"When?"
Gurdilek leaned over his tiled block.
"Listen good, Schiffer, because I won't repeat myself. The night the Wolves left here, they ran into a patrol car. They were pursued but managed to lose your men. So they came around here asking questions."
Schiffer listened to this revelation in total amazement. For a fleeting moment, he thought that Nerteaux must have hidden this report from him. But there was no reason for him to have done so. The kid quite simply did not know about it.
The gravelly voice went on: "In the meantime, my girls had made themselves scarce. The cops just noted the break-in and the damage. The workshop manager didn't say a thing about the kidnapping or the commandos. In fact, he wouldn't have said anything at all if there hadn't been the girl."
Schiffer leapt to his feet. "What girl?"
"The cops discovered a worker, hidden away in the machine room in the baths."
Schiffer could not believe his ears. Since the beginning of the affair, someone had seen the Grey Wolves. And she had been questioned by the boys of the tenth arrondissement! How come Nerteaux had never heard about that? One thing was sure, the cops at the station had covered up their discovery. Jesus fucking Christ.
"And what was this girl called?"
"Sema Gokalp."
"How old is she?"
"Thirtyish."
"Married?"
"No, single. A strange girl. A loner."
"Where's she from?"
" Gaziantep."
"Like Zeynep Tütengil?"
"Like all the girls in this workshop. She'd been working here for a few weeks. Since October."
"Did she see the kidnapping?"
"She had a front-row seat. The two of them were checking the temperature in the conduits. The Wolves took Zeynep while Sema hid in the back room. When the cops found her, she was in a state of shock. Half dead with fear."
"And then?"
"Never saw her again."
"They sent her back to Turkey?"
"No idea."
"Answer me, Talat. You must have asked around."
"Soma Gokalp has disappeared. The next day, she wasn't at the police station anymore. She vanished into thin air. Yemim ederim. I swear it!"
Schiffer was still sweating profusely. He forced himself to control his voice. "Who was leading the patrol that night?"
"Beauvanier."
Christophe Beauvanier was one of the captains at Louis-Blanc. A budding Mr. Universe who spent all his spare time in the sports club. Not the sort who would keep a story like this under his hat. Word must have come from higher up… Frissons of excitement were shaking his drenched rags.
The boss seemed to be following his thoughts. "They're covering for the Wolves, Schiffer."
"Don't talk rubbish."
"I'm telling the truth, and you know it. They removed the witness. A woman who must have seen everything. Maybe even the face of one of the killers. Maybe a detail that would allow them to identify them. They're covering for the Wolves, that's all there is to it. The other murders were committed with their blessing. So you can drop your airs and graces of upholding law and order. You're no better than us."
Schiffer avoided swallowing his spit so as not to worsen the burning in his throat. Gurdelik was wrong. The Turks' influence could not possibly rise that high in the ranks of the French police. He was well placed to know that. For twenty years, he had liaised between the two worlds.
So there must be another explanation.
And yet, he could not get one detail out of his mind. A version that could corroborate the hypothesis of a plot in high places. The fact that an inquiry into three murders had been entrusted to Paul Nerteaux, an inexperienced captain just off the last banana boat. Only the kid himself believed that they trusted him that much. It was starting to smell of a setup…
Thoughts surged through his burning temples. If this shit heap was true, if this business really was part of a French-Turkish alliance, if the politicians of both countries really were working for their own interests, at the expense of those poor girls and the hopes of a young cop, then Schiffer would help him all the way.
Two men against the rest. That was the sort of situation he liked.
He turned around in the steam, waved to the old pasha, then without a word went back up the steps.
Gurdilek gargled a last laugh. "It's time to put your own house in order, my brother."
44
Schiffer shoved the door of the commissariat open with his shoulder.
Everyone's eyes focused on him. Soaked to the skin, he stared back, savoring their panicked expressions. Two patrols wearing oilskins were on their way out. Some lieutenants in leather jackets were slipping on their red armbands. The great maneuvers had begun.
Schiffer noticed a pile of Identikit portraits on the counter. He thought of Paul Nerteaux, who was handing out these posters in every police station in the tenth arrondissement, as if they were political handbills, without suspecting in the slightest that he had been set up. Another wave of fury gripped him.
Without a word, he climbed up to the first floor. He dived down a corridor dotted with plywood doors and went straight to the third one.
Beauvanier had not changed. Puffed-up build, black leather jacket and Nike trainers with massive soles. This cop was suffering from an affliction that was becoming rife among his fellows: youth culture. He was nearing fifty but was still trying to look like a trendy rapper.
He was putting on his belt, before heading out on his nocturnal expedition. "Schiffer?" he choked. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"How are things, sweetheart?"
Before he had time to answer, Schiffer grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and rammed him against the wall. Some colleagues were already arriving in rescue. Beauvanier waved to them over his aggressor in a sign of peace.
"It's okay, lads. We're mates."
Schiffer murmured into his ear: "Soma Gokalp. Last November 13. Gurdelik's Turkish baths."
Beauvanier's eyes widened. His mouth trembled. Schiffer banged his head against the wall. The cops rushed at him. Schiffer could already feel them seizing his shoulders. But Beavanier waved his hand again, forcing himself to laugh. "I've told you, he's a friend. Everything's fine!"
The grip loosened. Footfalls receded. Finally, the door closed, slowly almost regretfully.
In turn, Schiffer relaxed his hold and asked, more calmly, "What did you do with the witness? How did you make her disappear?"
"It just happened like that, man. I didn't make anyone disappear…"
Schiffer stepped back to get a better look at him. His face was strangely sweet. The features of a young girl, ringed with extremely black hair and set with very blue eyes. Beauvanier reminded him of an Irish girlfriend he had had in his youth. An "Irish Black," full of contrasts, instead of the classic redhead.
The cop rapper was wearing a baseball cap, visor pointing at the nape of his neck, presumably to look even more like a bad boy.
Schiffer pulled over a chair and sat him down on it forcibly "I'm all ears. I want it down to the last detail."
Beauvanier tried to smile, in vain. "That night. a patrol car ran into a BMW There were these guys coming out of La Porte Bleue baths and-”
“I know all that. When did you come in?"