Rough Trade

14

1 a.m. Rue Piat

Romero dragged Martens, now asleep, out of the vehicle. No code needed to enter the building, just an entryphone. Elevator to the fifth floor. Open up — it worked. He laid the guy down in the hallway. Switched on the light and made a tour of the apartment. Spacious, well laid-out, kitchen, big dining-room, guest-room, perhaps a bit cold. In the entrance hall was a spiral staircase. Romero went up it, and — amazingly — there was a huge, completely open space, with immense bay windows which gave on to a flowery terrace and, beyond, the whole of Paris from Montmartre to Montparnasse. At this hour the city was dimly lit, it was quite moving. To the right of the staircase was an immense bed and behind it a double bath built into a platform. Along the walls, cupboards and a washbasin. To the left of the staircase, looking across Paris, a desk full of drawers, a coffee-table and sofas. Romero opened several drawers. Files were carefully stored in folders, each bearing a name and number. He leafed through. Unhoped for: all the funny business was there, filed away, just as they taught you to do in the Civil Service.

Romero went downstairs, loaded Martens, who was snoring, on to his back and hoisted him, with difficulty, up to the bedroom. Still snoring. He laid him on the bed, carefully removed his shoes. Then he rushed to the desk, keeping an eye on the sleeping form at the same time. Martens supplied blank, but already stamped, residence permits and work permits to a whole network of distributors: foreign embassies and the French police mainly. No businesses. Nothing on Moreira. At the Turkish embassy there was someone called Turgut Sener who bought a hundred cards a year. Martens sold them at 2,000 francs apiece. At this precise moment, Martens raised himself on his bed and muttered. Romero went swiftly to him — no way must he hesitate — took out his revolver and hit him sharply behind the ear with the grip. Martens fell back in a heap. He took the time to check he wasn’t dead, then rushed back to the desk. Tomorrow Martens would probably be incapable of remembering anything whatsoever.

He examined the file systematically and took notes. Put everything back in its exact place, left as few traces as possible. It was 5 a.m. when Romero left, having gazed one last time on the lights of Paris. Martens was sleeping peacefully. He put out all the lights. Left the keys on the floor in the entrance.

Romero went home. His apartment was … mediocre. Two tiny rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom. Overlooking a yard. There was calm and sun above the salting factory: good morning smells, summer. He took a long shower, shaved, changed his clothes … and found the packet of notes in his trouser pocket. He’d forgotten about them. He put them away carefully in his kitchen drawer and downed an enormous breakfast of bread, eggs, cheese, orange juice and a half-litre of coffee. His boss would be a happy man and he was, frankly, enjoying himself.

1 a.m. Quartier de l’Opéra

A bar, deep armchairs, dimmed lights, a piano, encounters.

In the basement contacts were more intensive. Lenglet hurried downstairs. But Daquin had no desire to follow him. Sunk in an armchair in a quiet corner, he sipped cognacs, with eyes half-closed. He was going to drink till the night ended. Boozing alongside the memory of his mother. From time to time he looked around. Who was there watching him? Perhaps that rather uptight fortyish guy, on a high stool by the bar. Or one of these very delightful adolescents passing to and fro in front of him all night? One of them, in the early hours, came and sat on his knee.

‘So, handsome, you drinking on your own?’

Daquin ruffled his hair, kissed him on the forehead. Another day perhaps. Then he got up. Rushed down to the basement, into the toilets. A route he knew and had already taken. A door marked PRIVATE, a dark corridor, several closed doors and at the end, another door, a staircase, a yard, then another yard. And finally a street, parallel to that of the bar.

It was daylight. Always a bit of a shock to find it light after a night spent drinking in the dark. He couldn’t allow his drunken state to set in. He walked quickly, as far as Les Halles, very nearby. He called the boss from a phonebox. It was a respectable hour to call. Seven o’clock.

‘Come right away.’

He took a taxi to the plush building on boulevard Malesherbes, a gloomy area. A large apartment on the second floor, all in silence. The family must be asleep. The Chief led him into the kitchen and a big surprise: a solid breakfast lay prepared on the table. Coffee, rolls, butter and jam, orange juice, yoghurt. Just what he needed to sponge up the night’s drinking. Daquin talked. The tail — followed at least twice — and yesterday, his house visited. Was it our people or traffickers?

The Chief pulled a face. The smell of stale tobacco, a real old woman’s tale. Who was he going to make swallow that? But he couldn’t take risks, mustn’t allow anything to happen, whatever it might be, to one of his most brilliant superintendents.

‘I’ll take personal charge of this business. Leave me your keys. And let’s meet this evening in my office.’

If Daquin hadn’t gone mad, if he were truly being followed, who was it pulling the strings? Impossible to be certain.

10 a.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin smiled at Attali and Romero. He felt less and less drunk.

‘Who’s going to start? Attali?’

‘VL didn’t turn up at the station this morning.’

‘Good. Attali, to work. A notification of a missing person to all police. And find everything out about this girl, her family, her friends, her clients.’

Daquin turned to Romero, who told him about his evening and his night. He could feel Daquin’s interest and amusement and became scintillating. Attali envied him.

‘Martens sells his correspondents blank documents, but they’re authentic — at 2,000 francs apiece. The illegal immigrants are going to pay 5,000 to 7,000 francs with their name on them. It’s lucrative. But I don’t think he’s directly implicated in drug trafficking. His clients are a very mixed collection of people.’

‘Does Martens have any way of finding you again?’

‘A way of meeting me again, of course. But of finding me, no. He knows absolutely nothing about me, not even my name.’

‘He’s going to find out pretty soon that his desk’s been rifled.’

‘Not necessarily. I took the files out one by one and put all the pages back in their exact order. I took a great deal of care. I only took one original.’

And Romero placed on the table a piece of paper covered in figures and dates. Every month, ten blank residence permits and work permits. Unit cost: 2,000 francs. Dates of deliveries and payments. Destination: Pierre Meillant. Daquin made no attempt to hide his surprise and excitement.

‘Romero, you really have the luck it takes to make a good cop. Not a word to Thomas and Santoni, obviously, they’re close to Meillant. And on the Turkish side, what does that give us?’

‘Martens’ correspondent at the embassy, the one who buys papers regularly, is someone called Turgut Sener. That’s all I know. The real papers for the Turks who put us on to Martens and Moreira’s trail don’t seem to be have been bought. At least, I didn’t find any trace of them. It could be a trade-off of processed vouchers.’

‘We must look into what could connect this Sener to the Sentier and drugs. If my memory serves me well, you’ve already established a contact at the embassy?’

‘Yes, commissaire.’

‘Good, well, just the right time to activate it, as our Secret Service boffins would say.’

Romero felt somewhat miffed. But there was nothing he could say. Two months ago, when he’d come to work with Daquin, a cousin had phoned him — a distant cousin (‘She’s the granddaughter of the sister of one of our great-grandmother’s …’ ‘Stop, I can’t take any more!’) who’d just arrived in France as a secretary at the Turkish embassy (‘Well, that sounds really interesting.’). She wanted to meet some French people, go out a bit. (‘To be honest with you, I got the impression she’d really wanted to marry a Frenchman and leave Turkey — she never wanted to go back there, she said.’) Romero immediately imagined a sour-tempered, desiccated prune. Since then he’d telephoned the distant relative twice — professional conscience obliged — without ever meeting her. It was a teaser: how could he strengthen the telephone link, yet avoid a clinging relationship? He’d get there in the end.

*

New meetings with the Club Simon members. The first admitted his participation without any reticence — the pseudonym he used was Minos (which would have been very suitable for a child killer) and came up with a more or less similar version to Lestiboudois. His particular interest was in petroleum by-products. His Arab clients loved the evenings at the Club Simon. Afterwards they’d take everyone, girls and boys, to finish off the night in the most expensive nightclubs in Paris, and when they were happy with their performance, would show the videos they’d just recorded quite openly.

‘Were you there?’

‘Me? Oh, no. Never. People would tell me about it.’

‘What about Thai girls?’

He’d never tried them: they weren’t ‘Parisian’ enough. He didn’t know Virginie Lamouroux.

The second was more interesting. A man called Lamergie, who worked in food-processing. His pseudonym was Theseus (oh, really!) and he acknowledged that he’d always taken part in the evenings his company offered to foreign clients. And on several occasions he’d used the services of Thai girls. When Daquin spelled out to him that these girls were between the ages of ten and fourteen, were slaves, bought, sold and locked up with no clothes in their studios so that they couldn’t escape, he didn’t seem too shocked and said simply that he hadn’t known. He knew Virginie Lamouroux well and he’d used her on numerous occasions.

And what had he been doing on the evening of Friday 29 February? He took out his diary. Yes, he was at the club with two clients, with girls provided by Virginie Lamouroux.

What were the girls’ names? Estelle, Maud and Véronique. He knew nothing further about them, but could recognize them.

Had he noticed anything that evening? No, it finished quite early, about midnight, difficult to be more precise. He’d passed Virginie Lamouroux in the small lobby in the basement, coming out of one of the projection cabins.

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Absolutely.’ He flipped through his diary. ‘It was the last time I visited the club. I said hallo to Virginie, she seemed to be on very good form. I suggested she join us for dinner, but she turned me down.’

‘Was she on her own?’

‘Yes.’

‘And can you recall which projection cabin she came out of?’

Lamergie pictured the scene.

‘I was coming from the studio at the back.’ Daquin rapidly checked on the page of notes in front of him. ‘Virginie was coming out of the cabin immediately to the left, at the foot of the stairs.’

Daquin glanced at his plan again, but he already knew the answer. It was the studio hired by Icarus, the one where, in all probability, the murder had taken place.

When Lamergie had gone, Daquin swore aloud two or three times and thumped the partition, the table and the chairs in quick succession. How could I have let this girl go, he thought. Lamouroux’s now involved in the Thai girl’s murder … I’ve behaved like an imbecilic misogynist. I always underestimate women.

*

This was a good time to phone New York on a Sunday morning. It must have been ten or eleven there, people were already up and about and still at home. Daquin went into an empty office, called New York and on the first ring found Frank Steiger at home. He was a very good friend, in the FBI. They’d worked together for a year on a very delicate case and the American owed him one.

‘Steiger? Daquin here … I’ve a real favour to ask you. Do you know a man called Baker? He’s currently directing a big ready-to-wear operation in New York and has quite a lot of business dealings in foreign parts.’

Silence from the other side of the Atlantic. Then Steiger said: ‘Daquin. I’m not going to ask you why you’re interested in him, but you mustn’t mention this conversation to anyone.’

‘Understood.’

‘He’s seen as an upright citizen, above suspicion. He’s old CIA. And what’s more he’s consulted regularly by this section and others.’

‘What d’you mean by “He’s seen as”?’

‘I’m not meaning anything in particular.’

‘One last question: when did he leave the CIA, and what were his last posts?’

‘I don’t know. Can I phone you back and tell you this evening? Well, for you it’ll be in the night.’

‘I’d rather you sent me a telex at the Drugs Squad.’

‘I’ll be in France in two or three months’ time. I’ll drop in to see you.’

‘I’ll give you the address of my present office.’

‘Passage du Désir. Wow! An address like that sets you dreaming …’

2 p.m.Somewhere in Paris

First general assembly of all the Turkish members from the Sentier. Order of the day: what was to be done about the Ministry’s decision. After ten days of negotiation, they’d taken the initiative of opening an office for legalizing residence and work permits, using critieria which didn’t take the committee’s proposals into account. Everyone knew the discussions were going to be stormy. The government’s proposed legalization programme would, at best, only cover ten to twenty per cent of Turkish workers. So in order to discuss this calmly, away from the indiscreet ears of Police Security, a confederation of trade unionists had hired a quiet, well managed assembly room with seating arrangements for 250, equipped with armchairs with writing flaps. And always free on a Sunday.

The hall filled rapidly: 500 people, all men with moustaches, arrived. The atmosphere was overheated. Bedlam. You had to shout to make yourself heard. And soon you could hardly see anything any more for the thick cigarette smoke. Everywhere were NOSMOKING notices and burn marks of stubbed-out cigarette ends on the carpet and seats. In the polished stone entrance hall was a coffee machine; dirty paper cups overflowed from the rubbish bins spilling into the hall and assembly room.

Soleiman was on the platform, with three Frenchmen supporting the committee and participating in the negotiations, along with a Turkish student who’d agreed to come and translate for the French. Soleiman opened the general assembly by asking members to confirm his appointment as Secretary General. Unanimity, public acclaim. A surge of intense happiness. That I, in my lifetime, should have known this, at least once, he thought. He began by recalling the positions the committee defended during the negotiations: that papers were to be provided for all Turks who had work. The logical conclusion was therefore to reject the government’s ‘legalization’. Enthusiastic shouts of support. The student faithfully translated.

And, now, what do we do? The general assembly exploded into a jumble of vehement, confused proposals.

Start another strike? No agreement, we’d lose money and the government doesn’t give a damn.

A demo? We’ve already had several, which weren’t very effective, we must find another way.

The student was still translating.

A bomb at the ministry? Not very interesting, we’d be unleashing police operations and losing public sympathy. The student was still translating.

At that moment, a moustachioed man stood up and made a long proposal. Silence was gradually established. Around him, one, two, three, then ten people stood up. There was a thunder of applause. Soleiman was as white as a sheet. The student refused purely and simply to translate. The French were getting anxious. Soleiman suggested the meeting be adjourned and left to discuss things with several friends. The French managed to have what had just been said translated: that the committee should write a memorandum of their position in a letter to the Press, then a Turkish volunteer should jump from the first storey of the Eiffel Tower every two hours. Beginning tomorrow, Monday, at midday and continuing until the government gives in … The boys who had stood up were volunteering to commit suicide. At this point there was straightforward panic among the French, who were convinced that the Turks were truly capable of doing it.

Soleiman returned, the general assembly continued. He had another proposal: tomorrow morning, let’s boycott the legalization office set up by the ministry. No Turks will turn up, and none are going to as long as the committee’s positions don’t form the basis of the legalization. And Soleiman defended his position in an impassioned tone: it was less heroic, perhaps, but more realistic, and would involve everyone’s participation. The working class exists because of its collective solidarity, not because of its martyrs. The student translated everything he could. The general assembly was swung over, Soleiman was given an ovation and the decision taken. He was sweating, his hands moist. A Frenchman shivered nervously.

And now the boycott had to be organized. Small groups were formed and these would immediately spread out to cover all the bistros in the Sentier. A meeting was set up for fifty or so militants, including the French, who would gather tomorrow morning in front of the legalization office and use dissuasion tactics, should the need be felt.

All over. It was 6 p.m. The general assembly broke up slowly, as though with regret. Soleiman and the French were the last to leave the room. A vague glance at the battlefield, littered with papers, rubbish, paper cups, cigarette ends overflowing everywhere. It reeked of stale tobacco. Their anxiety created solidarity: if the boycott were to fail (and was it possible for a boycott of this sort to succeed?), all that would be left for them to do would be to go and pick up the corpses on the Champs-de-Mars, watched by gawping tourists. At least the first one, before the cops locked everyone up.

7p.m. Drugs Squad

In the office, the atmosphere was smoky and tense. Quite a few people: the chief, his sidekick, one of the men in charge of the Organized Crime Squad, a member from the office of the Police Director, a technician from Drugs, a specialist in electronics. Daquin arrived last. He was at first surprised, then amused.

The technician gave a summary of the ‘inventory of fixtures’. On the ground floor were three microphones hidden in a cupboard and connected to a recording machine buried outside, a device which was practically impossible to detect unless one were looking for it. On the first floor, a camera had been hidden in the bedroom, behind one of the spotlight fittings in the ceiling. It was directed on to the bed, of which it had complete coverage. The work of a pro, and very sophisticated materials: extra-flat, silent, the camera turned itself on to infra-red, that’s to say, whenever there was human activity in its field of vision. The technician was silent.

‘What have you done with the matériel?’

‘We’ve left it all in working order and removed any trace of our being there.’

‘What services do we have who have use of this matériel?’

‘Well, they all have microphones. As for the camera, no one to my knowledge has it. And in my case it’s the first time I’ve seen that type of apparatus.’

‘Daquin, what’s your view?’

‘I have a possible theory: traffickers know that I’m on their trail. They have to react. By having me followed, installing the microphones, they’re trying to get information on the state of the investigation. The camera’s something else. They must have heard it said I like boys,’ a glance around the room, ‘and they probably imagine they can make me squeal, or else put pressure elsewhere to get me off the case. There’s another theory, apparently: one of our services wants to be in the know about the investigation into the Turkish network. Or practise blackmail for its own ends.’

‘That theory’s rejected, for the moment.’ The Chief looked piqued. ‘Leave everything in its present state. We’ll watch your house from tomorrow morning onwards, and we’ll tail the “plumbers” when they come to read the meters.’

After a few practical details of how the work would be set in motion, everyone left. Daquin remained alone with his chief.

‘If it is one of our services, which I don’t exclude, I could quite well see they might have connections with the Marseilles trail and its American end, from whence the hyper-sophisticated materiél. We can determine that very quickly. One way or another, they’ll know that we know, and no one will come to read the meters. If they’re traffickers, there’s a bit more of a chance they’ll fall into our trap.’

*

Under the camera’s eye, Daquin was in bed, all alone under the orange duvet. Longing to savour the acid taste of Soleiman’s skin once more, telling himself: don’t forget — it’s impossible to fall in love. What a shame.