Rough Trade

EPILOGUE

‘Sunday saw publication of the first results in the second round of elections to the Iranian Parliament, in which the Party of the Islamic Republic, led by the Ayatollah Béhechti, is certain to be victorious …’

Libération, 13 May 1980

Thursday 15 May, 7 p.m. Rue du Château-d’Eau

For two days student demonstrations had been going on near rue Jussieu. Heavy police presence round the Faculté. Rumour had it that there had been one death. The area round the Gare de l’Est was much calmer. Rue du Château-d’Eau was almost deserted when a motorcycle rode into it at high speed. Two men wearing crash helmets. They stopped, with the engine still running, outside the Association of Lighting Technicians, full of people at this hour of the day. The pillion passenger dismounted, reached into the carrier at the back and took out a sub-machine-gun. He stood up and fired a volley towards the top of the façade, which collapsed with a deafening noise of breaking glass. Everyone inside threw themselves flat on the floor. The man with the gun raised the visor of his helmet and shouted two or three sentences in Turkish. Another volley. Then he jumped onto the pillion seat of the motorcycle which rode off and disappeared. The police would arrive at the spot a few minutes later.

Friday 16 May, 8 a.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin was in a very bad mood. He’d been at a standstill for more than a month now. True, he’d brought off a splendid coup, the entire network had collapsed, along with its connections in France and a few financial links. But Kashguri had vanished without trace. The investigation had proved that he owned a Renault 5, kept in the second car-park at his apartment block, which led to Boulevard Suchet, and he had probably used it to get away, at about 4 a.m. on the morning of 4 April. Was he going to supervise the arrival of the delivery? The registration number of the car had been circulated to all police forces without success. The man had purely and simply disappeared during the night of 3–4 April. Oumourzarov, who had been present at Kashgour’s soirée, had been released the same afternoon. Almost with apologies. Nothing had been proved against Sobesky. The murder of the Thai girl had still not been solved. And, last night, Soleiman hadn’t returned to sleep with him. He missed him, even if he found it hard to admit the fact.

Daquin skimmed rapidly through the various notes scattered over his desk and came across one from the local squad inspectors — the office of the Association of Lighting Technicians had been machine-gunned the previous night. Shots at the ceiling. Two people slightly hurt by flying glass. According to witnesses the man responsible for firing the shots was a certain Soleiman Keyser, a militant from a Turkish group of the extreme left. People present at the Association office alleged they had definitely recognized him when he raised the visor on his helmet and shouted: ‘No place for Fascists in this district! Get out, or next time we’ll fire at your height.’ Search warrant issued.

Daquin’s first reaction: Tonight I’ll get hold of him by the scruff of his neck and spank him. Second reaction: If I want to do that I’ll have to send two cops to find him. That sounds very much like goodbye.

Friday 16 May, 9a.m. Parish of Saint-Bernard

Soleiman walked there, his head high, taking his time. The weather was fine, the Turks had appreciated the shooting of the previous day. Two hundred metres away from the church a Frenchman who had been looking out for him took him by the arm and pushed him into the nearest café.

‘The cops are looking for you. There’s already been a search at 6 o’clock this morning at Thévenard’s place, where your mail’s delivered. And two cops are waiting for you opposite the church. The Fascists are alleging that it was you who carried out the shooting at their Association’s office.’

‘So what?’

‘We’re not asking anything of you. We see all this as provocation by the cops or the Fascists, that’s all. We’re taking you to the country for a few days, long enough for it all to blow over. Don’t argue, Soleiman. We can’t risk trouble now, when legalization’s just about to be achieved.’

‘But I’m not arguing.’

The telephone rang. Ten minutes later a car arrived. Two French chums from the Committee sitting in front. Soleiman got in at the back. Rather odd route across Paris: somebody had already been killed in the rue Jussieu area and things were hotting up in the Latin Quarter. There had been endless detours to avoid the police roadblocks now set up at all the main crossing points. Soleiman, who was sitting low down at the back, was suddenly upset at the idea of being taken before Daquin between two cops.

*

At 11.30 the journey came to an end in front of an attractive stonebuilt house in the Vexin area. A big wooden door. Behind the house, sheltered from view, a very large garden, full of fruit-trees, some of them in flower. A plump woman came out of the kitchen, a Mauritian, with yellow skin, all smiles.

‘Maria, here’s the young man we’re entrusting to you.’

‘He’s sweet. No problem, I’ll take good care of him.’

‘Don’t go. I’ve no clothes, no money …’

How can he say that he feels lost? And that Maria scares him?

‘We told you we’d look after everything. Maria will do the shopping and the cooking. As for you, you can go out in the garden, but not into the village. We’ve brought clothes, you’ll find everything in your room.’

Soleiman watched the car go. Maria closed the door. Things were moving rather too quickly for him, he couldn’t really understand.

‘In an hour,’ said Maria, ‘lunch will be ready.’

Soleiman smiled at her. From that point of view at least, I shan’t feel like a fish out of water. It was a lovely day. He took a few steps in the garden, stretched out on the grass in the sunshine and went to sleep.

Saturday 17 May, 10 p.m. At Le Sancerre.

Not many people were left in the bistro. Daquin and Steiger were alone on the small, enclosed terrace, with its panelling in light coloured wood and its intimate atmosphere. They were eating a splendid stuffed shoulder of lamb. With chilled Brouilly. Their conversation travelled all round the Middle East and then came back to the dismantling of the Turkish network.

‘Your friends aren’t co-operative. It’s frustrating. I wasn’t even able to interrogate Baker in person.’

‘You must know that he’s been assassinated.’

‘That’s what they tell me, yes. Assassinated in the shower by a junkie. Did you help him to die? Or is he starting a new career under another name in South America?’

Steiger hesitated for a moment. ‘You don’t realize what a storm you’ve unleashed in the microcosmos of the American secret services.’

‘Yes, I do, I’ve some idea. It could be said, for example, that Baker had always worked for the CIA. He apparently belonged to a faction that had decided to use drugs against communism and the Soviet Union. When that comes out into the open it always creates a stir, and the others, those who are against the use of drug trafficking and favour more traditional methods, can take advantage of it. All things considered, I think he must have been liquidated.’

‘That’s not the most embarrassing thing in the Baker case. This type of conflict between rival factions is traditional in the CIA, and they know how to manage it. No, Baker did something much worse for the image of the CIA. While continuing to work for them from time to time, he’d set up a personal business in video cassettes awash with blood and porn, torture and murders filmed live, guaranteed authentic: it was extremely lucrative for him. And the funds for starting it up had been supplied by the live recordings of the tortures that the Savak inflicted on anyone opposing the Shah’s regime in Tehran, while Baker was employed there. It’s said that Baker himself did the filming. Apparently there were men burnt alive on heated metal plates, others whose bones were cut out while they were still alive. I won’t mention the mass rapes of women and children, in front of their husbands and fathers. The Americans apparently tolerate collaboration by civil servants with torturers in faraway places but transforming all that into porn videos is more difficult to admit. In short, the CIA didn’t want to take the risk.’

Daquin was astounded.

‘And I knew nothing about all that. Do you think that’s normal? Now I know what Virginie Lamouroux went to do in New York. Frank, I must see those casssettes as soon as possible.’

‘I didn’t know you had a taste for that sort of thing.’

Daquin smiled at him.

‘Waiter, two glasses of champagne. What will you have for dessert?’

Sunday 18 May, 1 a.m. Villa des Artistes

Daquin was fast asleep when the telephone rang. He picked it up and glanced at his watch. Quarter to 1. He sat up, his bare back against the wall and the duvet pulled up to his waist.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Soleiman.’

Daquin looked automatically at the chubby little blonde who was slowly waking up beside him, crumpled and delightful.

‘Daquin, I know what Ali Agça has come to do in France.’

‘Go on.’

‘He’s come to assassinate the Pope.’

‘Explain, slowly. It’s late, I was asleep.’

‘I’m in the country. I’ve nothing to do. I spend my evenings dozing in front of the telly. I don’t really listen, but that’s the only thing they talk about, the Pope in Paris, at the end of the month. And suddenly, this evening, it reminded me of something. Agça escaped from prison in November 1979, when the Pope was visiting Turkey. And he wrote to the Milliyet to explain that he’d escaped because he wanted to assassinate the Pope, a symbol of the West, or something like that. I don’t remember exactly because I was on the run at the time, and then it seemed to me to be crazy, but you can check. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but maybe not. Are you still listening?’

‘Of course.’

‘Goodbye, Daquin.’

Monday 19 May, 8 a.m. Passage du Désir

Lavorel, in a dark suit, wearing a tie, carrying an attaché case, accompanied by a Superintendent from the Finance Squad, came to hand over to Daquin his report on the papers seized in Kashguri’s apartment. He was terribly serious and, following all the rules, Daquin played the game and sat up straight in his chair.

‘Monsieur le commissaire, you’ll see that the Kashguri papers allow us to form a precise notion of how the Bank of Cyprus and the East functions. It finances the arms traffic directed towards Turkey and the Lebanon and also the setting-up of the Turkish network. It’s also the deposit bank for well-known drug traffickers in Syria and the Lebanon. This black money finances in part the bribes and various commissions paid by the European enterprises which work with the bank in the Near and Middle East, of which the most important is the Parillaud Bank. You’ve got all the details in the report. But nothing in those papers supplies any proof that Kashguri was implicated in any other way in the Turkish network. He financed it, yes, but nothing allows us to say that he was the mastermind.’

‘Thank you for the quality and clarity of your work. What kind of follow-up will there be to this report?’

Lavorel said nothing and looked at his superintendent, who went on: ‘Since we’re on our own, I might as well tell you: probably nothing. The law doesn’t allow us to take action against banks that launder dirty money. And who would dare touch Parillaud?’

‘One more thing, Lavorel. Where have you got to with Anna Beric?’

‘She told me everything, as planned. We’re now arranging to call in the different manufacturers involved. It’s going to take a long time, but we’ll arrive at some staggering tax adjustments.’

‘Do you confirm that there’s nothing in the Kashguri papers that could link Anna Beric to the Turkish network?’

‘No, nothing. Anna Beric only comes into it through her use of the Bank of Cyprus and the East for sending money out of France, as several other manufacturers do, in fact.’

‘I think we’ll have to agree to her release. What do you think about it?’

‘I think we’ll find it difficult to avoid. Her lawyers asked the investigating magistrate to allow it, two days ago. I reserved my opinion until today.’

‘No objections on my side. However, I must tell you that I’ll have her followed and that the magistrate has already given permission for her telephone to be tapped.’

Monday 19 May, 11 a.m. Office of the Drugs Squad

Summit meeting, Chief of the Drugs Squad, Ministry of the Interior, Crime Squad, Official Travel Service. Daquin presented a report on Ali Agça. He had decided in favour of a strictly chronological exposé: surveillance of the sandwich shop, photos, identification, and therefore his presence in France and his links with the network all proved. Report by the Turkish police. The three murders ordered by the traffickers had, he was convinced, been carried out by Ali Agça, for the method employed was his.

After 4 April, nothing more. Daquin explained the work he had had to do in order to establish a solid case against the traffickers and the French people who sold the stuff on, sixty or so altogether, the killers of Virginie Lamouroux and Madame Buisson, his concierge, Kashguri’s henchmen. The difficulties of bringing to light the financial procedures based on Kashguri’s papers. The vain search for Kashguri himself, all over France, many people questioned without any results. The setback experienced over the Turkimport company, which was exonerated in the end. And finally the two inspectors who had been working with him since the beginning, and who were therefore perfectly up-to-date with the case, were out of action for a time: Attali, who had been slightly hurt, and Romero, subjected to an enquiry by the police disciplinary service following the murder of Moreira. Fortunately he was a bad shot! All in all, he, Daquin, had not had time to deal with Ali Agça. He had taken up the case again a few days earlier. The first stage was to enlarge the report by the Turkish police, which was extremely brief. Work on the Turkish press. And at that point Daquin read out a translation of Ali Agça’s letter to the Milliyet, dated November 1979, in which he explained why he would certainly kill the Pope, who had commanded the Crusades. A long, impassioned document, nationalist, Islamist, anti-Western. Just a little crazy. All in all, plausible.

Consternation. The Pope was due to arrive in Paris on 31 May. There were twelve days left to find Ali Agça or else learn that he had definitely left French territory.

NARCOTICS EXECUTIONER

‘The Ayatollah Sadegh Khalkahli stated over Radio Tehran on Monday that he had resumed his work as head of the Iranian narcotics bureau. On 14 May the Ayatollah had resigned from his post as leader of the fight against drugs, four days after his appointment, since he considered his powers were limited. The Iranian president, Monsieur Abolhassan Bani Sadr, had asked him to reconsider his position. The Ayatollah has stated that his first big success was the seizure by his staff of 900 kilos of opium and the arrest of the traffickers.’

Libération, 20 May

Tuesday 20 May, 8 a.m. Roissy

Attali flew to New York. The FBI were trying to identify the killers and the victims filmed live on more than three hundred cassettes. Those that had been recorded in Tehran had been classified as ‘secret defence’, but Attali would have free access to all the others, and an FBI agent would help him to make the selection.

Daquin left for two days in Istanbul. His first meeting with the Turkish police, which had been long postponed due to the divergences of understanding between France and Turkey concerning the murder of Sener. But finally made possible from 14 May last, when the French government had officially recognized the responsibility of the Armenian terrorists. Two days to hand over to the Turkish government all the additional information it could hope for about the Turkish network. And to obtain everything possible about Ali Agça.

Romero drove him to Roissy.

‘Manage things any way you want, Romero. When I come back I want the Turks to have handed over Agça. We’ve let Kashguri get away. One, not two.’

There were ten or so inspectors along with Romero in the Drugs Squad. Results essential, all possible methods permissible.

The top brass in the Official Travel Service and the Ministry of the Interior were taking a second look at the security arrangements planned for the Pope’s visit.

Wednesday 21 May, 10 p.m. Roissy

Romero, unshaven, exhausted, his clothes creased, came to meet Daquin. The airport was almost deserted. Daquin glanced critically at Romero’s appearance but seemed in a better temper than the day before.

‘Was Istanbul OK?’

‘Beautiful, beautiful town.’ A heartfelt thought for the wife of the director for Anatolian Studies, the little wooden hotel below Saint Sophia, the seagulls in the pinnacles, the dark shape of the basilica against the clear sky, the radiophonic tone of the muezzins. ‘I met police officers who knew Agça. According to them he’s crazy enough to plot the assassination of the Pope and lucid enough to have a chance of success. On the other hand, according to the Turkish cops, he’s a rather bad shot, which explains why he always shoots at point-blank range. That gives us a chance. After his escape, last November, he settled in Germany. They thought he was still there. As for the rest, no real clues. What about you?’

‘We’ve begun all the interrogations again. We’ve had no sleep since yesterday morning. Results: on Wednesday 5 March, the day when the photo was taken, Agça arrived in Paris, coming from Germany, apparently. Since then he’s completely disappeared. The Turks think he wasn’t living in Paris. One detail, interesting, perhaps: he doesn’t speak a word of French. We identified the two men who put up the leaflets round the Gymnase about the assassination of Osman Celik, and we got them to talk. It really was Agça who assassinated Celik. They were there to create a diversion and cover his flight. He didn’t even need it. He left again that same evening by car, with Celebi, the little dealer whose corpse I identified in Rouen. The decisions to kill Celik and Sener were taken by the leader of the network in France, whom no Turk has ever met. He was the only man to have had contact with Agça. He issued his orders by post to the two Turkish leaders in the shops, poste restante, written in Turkish. When they had to say or to ask for something, it went through Moreira and Kutluer.’

‘Well protected.’

‘So it seems. The Turks didn’t know that Celebi had been killed and they don’t understand why. That’s it. That’s all we’ve been able to get in two days of uninterrupted interrogations. They’re not kind-hearted. We’re tired, but so are they.’

‘From the little I was able to see over there, they must have acquired a certain resistance to tough interrogations, they’ve got used to them. Do you think there’s anything more to be got out of them?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Thursday 22 May, 8 a.m. Passage du Désir

Attali, the first to arrive, had acquired a television from another office, with some difficulty, together with a video recorder, and prepared the cassette. He waited for the others. Tense, exhausted, somewhat confused by what he had seen during the last few days. Romero, Lavorel, and then Daquin came in and sat down round the table.

Attali switched on the television and inserted the cassette.

*

The girl was there, sitting naked on the edge of the vast white bed in the middle of the room, with mirrors all round. She’s childlike yet already world-weary. In a corner is a Louis XV armchair, at the far end, a table-height fridge. On it are tumblers, flutes, goblets, an assortment of glasses. She’s gently swinging her legs and singing to herself. A man comes in. He’s also naked. She studies him, gives him the once-over. Around forty-five, bullneck, fat, small bum, thin legs, balding, but a real mat of ginger hair on his chest. She smiles and beckons, and he, with gluttonous face, sidles slowly towards the icebox, opens it, pours himself a very generous whisky. ‘Want a drink, baby girl?’ — he raises his glass to her. The gesture is rather too expansive: he sloshes the whisky on the thick white carpet. She shakes her head, says nothing, but has a constant smile. He drinks, lets the glass fall on the carpet, goes over to her, collapses on the bed, laughing.

She makes him lie face down, sits on the small of his back. Next to him, she’s incredibly fragile. She begins massaging him, mewing softly to get herself into the rhythm. He lets her do it, groans with pleasure, encourages her. ‘Give your little daddy a cuddle.’ She lies on top of him, nibbles his neck, his ears. He stirs slowly, emits a few inaudible sounds, snatches at the carpet with his fingers. She turns him over on to his back. He looks pleased. She gently massages his dick. The man leans up on his elbows. He looks at this tiny body barely able to balance on his, turns towards the mirrors and smiles at them. He’s humming. She solemnly applies herself to her task. Her face is more attentive, her smile fixed, her eyes watching the other person’s reaction.

All at once the man senses he’s being watched. He seems to be waking from a long sleep, but his eyes are glazed. The girl slowly raises her hands towards the man’s nipples and starts pinching them gently. The humming transmutes to a long moan. He sits up and she falls on the bed. He’s overcome with panicky fear. His eyes are dilated. He screams ‘She’s going to kill me’. He curls up, hands over eyes, and starts kicking out at the girl. ‘Is it a game?’ she asks, still smiling, but seems a little anxious. She avoids the kicks and tries to calm him by drawing him down on the bed, caressing his shoulders and nipples. ‘Remember, I’m your baby.’ But he screams again. ‘Don’t grow up, don’t grow up.’ Then he grabs her by the throat, shakes her, throws her down on the bed and squeezes, squeezes. ‘You won’t have me.’ She struggles a bit, not much, she’s completely crushed by the man’s massive weight. She can’t cry out any more. After one, two minutes she stops struggling altogether.

*

The cassette came to an end.

‘So, it was Bertrand.’ Romero and Daquin looked at each other.

‘That fat pig had had a bad trip.’

‘I’d expected it to be Kashguri.’

‘He must have been in a corner, full of heroin, masturbating. Then the two of them came out of it. Picked up the body, which they wrapped up in just anything. The girl was very small. They left Simon Video by the back alleys, completely deserted at night, to dump the body as far away as possible, but without crossing rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, which was busier. They went into the last building, found the door to Bostic’s workroom inadequately locked, hid the body beneath the gypsy pants and slammed the door behind them. They threw away the clothes somewhere else, or gave them to the Salvation Army. And, since they’d barely got over the trip, they forgot the video cassette. VL came by and found it. Things must have happened more or less like that.’

‘Can Bertrand lead us to Kashguri and Ali Agça?’

‘Wait. That’s not all I must tell you where I found the cassette. Baker’s video cassettes were divided up into three series by the FBI. First series, the cassettes filmed in Tehran, “secret defence”. I was spared those. Second series, the commercial stock. I worked with an agent from the FBI who helped me sort them out. Everything showing boys was eliminated, since I was looking for the murder of a young girl. I viewed a hundred speeded up cassettes. I didn’t know such things were possible. A young girl whose sex and anus had been slashed with a razor … I’ll skip that. In the end, nothing. Then the FBI guy told me there was a third series, Baker’s private cassettes, those he hadn’t had reproduced for commercial distribution, and the FBI thought that he used them for applying pressure or blackmail. Twenty or so altogether, usually scenes that were much more “soft”, classic adultery or homosexual love scenes.’

Daquin laughed.

‘No doubt that’s the collection in which I might almost have ended up myself.’

‘You’d have been in very good company. Apparently there’s one cassette with the wife of a French cabinet minister. I wasn’t allowed to see it. And it was in that series that I found the Bertrand cassette.’

For the last few moments everyone had been waiting for the finale. There was a short pause, while they digested the news.

‘If Bertrand was important enough in Baker’s eyes for the latter to find a means of pressurizing him, then it might mean that he could have a direct role in the network.’

‘The outcome may have been like this: VL went to the Club Simon, where she had a date with Kashguri. The studio was empty. She had a quick look at the cassette that had remained there and took it to Baker, whose little business she knew about, but she didn’t know who Bertrand was. Baker bought the cassette and had VL killed in order to protect Bertrand.’

‘What worries me about this version is that too much in it happens by accident.’

‘And for the time being we’re not even sure that Kashguri was present at the Club Simon during the murder.’

‘We’re not sure but it’s more than likely. He’s the member. And also he’s the one that the Thais recognized.’

‘There could be a quite different version. VL had been working with Baker for a long time. It was she who’d told him that Sobesky was the ideal sucker, and it was she who stayed in the house to observe him. On instructions from Baker she set a trap for Bertrand and made an appointment with him at the Club Simon. Remember: she left Sobesky for an important appointment. She arranged for Bertrand to swallow something nasty which would definitely give him a bad trip. If it went as far as murder, then all the better. While Bertrand was dealing with the corpse she dashed off to New York with the cassette.’

‘And was it Bertrand who had her assassinated by Kashguri?’

‘Or had her assassinated by the Kashguri method? Kashguri has a hold over Bertrand because he knows about the murder of the Thai girl. That’s the message he sent him when he gave us his alibi for the evening of 29 February. Bertrand’s reply: he has a hold over Kashguri by making him responsible for the murder of VL.’

‘How do you fit the 14 March lunch into that scenario?’

‘Baker had his faithful collaborator assassinated by Kashguri when he learnt, through Attali’s phone call, that the police were on to him.’

‘In any case we haven’t done enough work on Bertrand.’

‘We were ordered not to do it.’

‘That’s not a sufficient reason, as you well know. I’ve rather concentrated on Kashguri. We should have investigated Bertrand’s past. I’m sure we’re going to come across him somewhere between Tehran and Istanbul during the 70s, and involved with the CIA trafficking. Perhaps he’s a member of our own secret services. We’ll have time now to go into all that. We’ll start by arresting him for murder. But he’s a Deputy, protected by parliamentary immunity. It’ll certainly be complicated.’

Daquin telephoned the Drugs chief while Romero made coffee for everyone.

*

It was after 5 p.m. when Daquin and his team went to Bertrand’s home. The day had been spent in various telephone calls. Various procedures had to be followed before Daquin could obtain authorization to interrogate the Deputy immediately, before he could be charged and arrested. In the end contact was made with the secretary in Bertrand’s office at the Assembly. After receiving a telephone call at about 3 p.m. Bertrand had immediately gone home, leaving orders that he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatever.

‘Who was this telephone call from?’

‘I couldn’t tell you. A man, with a foreign accent.’ Elevator. The door to the apartment was locked. They rang the bell. Nothing. Daquin sent for the concierge. She opened the door. They found Bertrand in his office, lying over the big leather armchair, a bullet in his head, the pistol on the floor. The enquiry would conclude it was suicide.

Who had telephoned, or got someone to telephone? A friend in political life? A cop? Anna Beric? Erwin?

Friday 23 May, 3p.m. Passage du Désir

Noted with half an eye in Libération …

… It would be reasonable to assume that Sheikh Khalkhali would carry out with obvious awareness an apparently modest task for the man who had decided to exterminate the enemies of Islam … Twenty executions on Wednesday, nine on Thursday: the Sheikh has not disappointed his admirers … The thirty condemned men were accused of belonging to an international group who sold drugs throughout Iran and had connections with counter-revolutionaries abroad.

*

Attali, who had been somewhat tested by his New York trip, had asked for a few days’ leave, which he was spending with his family at Antony. Romero had taken a day off too. The Official Travel Service had grilled Kashguri’s two menservants, in vain. Daquin, alone in his office, was working on photocopies of Bertrand’s personal papers. Without much conviction. The ending of any affair is always bitter, but he felt totally apathetic. Kashguri and Agça had disappeared, and for the time being there wasn’t the slightest sign of a clue. Baker had died in New York and he hadn’t even seen him once. Bertrand had committed suicide or his suicide had been arranged before he could arrest him. Frustration and more frustration.

Romero appeared at the door of his office.

‘Chief, may I disturb you for a few moments?’

Daquin indicated that he could.

Romero stepped back and showed in a woman, a bunch of curly red hair, white skin, golden eyes. Daquin stood up, fascinated.

‘Chief, let me introduce Yildiz, we’re going to get married, and I should like you to be my witness.’

Once they had left Daquin closed his files and decided to start his weekend at once.

Monday 26 May, 10 a.m. Passage du Désir

The Official Travel people were tensed up.

‘All security measures have been reviewed and strengthened. We have two facts on our side. The first is that Agça doesn’t speak French and will find himself very isolated, because you’ve arrested most of the people he knew in Paris. We’ve arranged surveillance of all the remaining militants and extreme right Turkish areas in Paris, so far without results. Second fact: Agça is a bad shot. If we succeed in always keeping the Pope away from contact with the crowds, we can avoid catastrophe. We’ve planned to use helicopters and cars for his journeys: access will be carefully controlled: invitation only or passes. Twenty thousand volunteer lookout men have been taken on, plus three thousand state security police and five hundred plainclothes inspectors. There will be two very delicate moments because it will be difficult to keep the Pope at a distance: the meeting with the Polish community at the Champ-de-Mars, and the visit to Saint-Denis where the Pope is meeting the immigrants … you can see the sort of thing …’

‘It’s all the better that Agça, on the whole, looks very like an immigrant … Less like a Pole.’

‘For Saint-Denis we’ve informed the local council who are calling in the disciplinary services of the Communist Party.’

‘Well, then, everything’s going well.’

‘Every police force in France has received a photo of Agça. But we’ve still had no response. And about your side?’

‘On my side, nothing. I must tell you that since the death of Bertrand I’ve had no ideas. And I’m somewhat unmotivated.’

*

Telephone call from the chief of Drugs. He’d just been informed that Iran was asking officially for the extradition of Kashguri on charges of drug trafficking. Daquin made himself coffee and, in his armchair thought vaguely about Lespinois, who must be negotiating hard at this moment. With the Islamists, against Parillaud. Like the CIA in Afghanistan, against the Soviets … The drug traffic forming an element not to be neglected in confused strategies. And suddenly he had an idea. He searched through his files, found the address and telephone number of Oumourzarov and called his office at La Défense. The secretary. A wait.

‘Oumourzarov here. What do you want of me, commissaire?’ Slightly aggressive.

‘I should like to meet you and have a talk. There’s nothing official about this, and frankly, I haven’t told my superiors about it. They would certainly not have authorized me to telephone you.’

A long silence.

‘Tomorrow, for an aperitif, 7 o’clock, at my place. You know the address.’

Tuesday 27 May, 7p.m. Enghien-les-Bains

Daquin rang the bell. A click, the impressive black metal door opened, he went in. A servant wearing black trousers and a white jacket came to meet him. ‘Monsieur is waiting for you in the garden,’ and led him to the edge of the lake. There, beneath a chestnut tree, a garden table and armchairs on the lawn. Grey-blue lake beyond the tree-trunks. The water lapped against the stone wall. Oumazarov stood up to greet him and shook his hand. Very much the traditional businessman, young and dynamic. Daquin remembered having seen him on 4 April, in Kashguri’s apartment, then in the Drugs Squad offices, before he was released after a firm intervention by the Minister of Defence.

‘Commissaire, delighted to make your acquaintance in circumstances, let us say, acceptable for me. You’ve given me a few problems lately but you’ve given your government even more. Are you behind the Anglo-Saxon press campaign denouncing the violation by the French government of the embargo on weapons destined for Iran?’

‘No, I’ve got nothing to do with that. My government does what it considers right in that field. I only crossed your path when Carim and Bodrum, whom you know well, might possibly have taken part in the murder of Sener.’

He was irritated. ‘Since then the French police have officially admitted the responsibility of the Armenian terrorists and the question is closed. Therefore you didn’t come to talk to me about that.’

‘True.’ At the mention of Sener it was the sumptuous Yildiz whom he saw in his mind’s eye. Double game, Romero had said. Could it have been triple? ‘I came to give you two items of news, which I’d like to discuss with you. First, Iran has just officially requested the extradition of Kashguri. Do you see what that means?’

The footman arrived, carrying a tray with glasses and an ice-bucket.

‘Put all that down and leave us. What can I offer you?’

‘Vodka with ice, thank you.’

‘So, what does this mean, in your opinion?’

‘That the Islamists are definitely rejecting the pro-Westerners and the moderates, and in future it will be necessary to go through them in order to conduct business in Iran. It will soon be a disadvantage to be linked to Parillaud or the Bank of Cyprus and the East.’

Oumourzarov prepared the glasses. They began to drink in silence.

‘And your second item of news?’

‘Kashguri has used the services of a Turkish extremist who had assassinated two of his compatriots here in France, and I think he had also executed Sener. His name is Ali Agça.’ Oumourzarov did not react. ‘We think that the said Ali Agça intends to assassinate the Pope during his visit to Paris.’

Oumourzarov put down his glass in surprise.

‘Are you serious?’

‘I fear I am.’

And Daquin gave a rapid description of the letter to the Milliyet and his recent visit to the Turkish police.

‘I agree that it’s hard to believe. But admit that if this did happen it would deal a very severe blow to certain Turkish interests in France. In plain words that makes two good reasons why you might risk finding yourself in the uncomfortable role of scapegoat.’

‘Commissaire, I don’t regret meeting you, I’m not bored for one moment in your company. Tell me now why you’re here, apart from the passionate interest you feel for the Turks living in France.’

‘Good question.’ Awareness of absence and emptiness. ‘My request is very simple. In the discussions you may have had with Kashguri can you remember anything, even apparently harmless, which could help me in finding Kashguri or Agça? An allusion, a joke, anything at all?’

A long silence. The two men finished their drinks, sipping slowly while looking at the lake, luminous, without a ripple. A very beautiful spring evening.

‘Kashguri never spoke to me about Agça. For the good reason that he didn’t know him. Only one person spoke to me about Agça, and that was Bertrand.’

Oumourzarov let Daquin absorb the news and then went on: ‘It was right here, he was sitting in your place. He described him to me as a very strange fanatic.’ Detached tone of voice. ‘And he told me that here in France his only acquaintances were the Catholic fundamentalists. That made me laugh, for I’m totally secular. But there may be some connection with your story about the assassination of the Pope.’ A pause. ‘Would you like to stay to dinner with us, commissaire? My wife would be delighted to make your acquaintance.’

Wednesday 28 May, 9a.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin earned more scepticism than enthusiasm from the people in charge of Official Travel.

‘Search among the Catholic fundamentalists? What are your sources?’

‘No source I can quote.’

‘We’ve got no files about the fundamentalists. And what can a nationalist Turk, an Islamist, possibly have in common with Catholic fundamentalists?’

‘I’ve no idea, it’s not my culture. Do what you like about it.’

Conviction that they would do nothing.

*

Soleiman went into the local squad office. He had come to settle once and for all the question of the machine-gun attack on the Association of Electrical Technicians, which had since been assimilated with provocation by the Turkish extreme right. An office on the second floor, an inspector with a typewriter, a statement. On that day, at that time, he was at the Committee office, surrounded with many witnesses. Signature. Soleiman went out. By the door a young cop in plain clothes looked at him with curiosity.

‘Monsieur Keyder?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Superintendent Daquin would like to make your acquaintance and asks if you would kindly go to his office.’

‘After you.’

Third floor. He recognized the glass door. As though it were yesterday. He fingered his upper lip. Felt his moustache, now growing again, to give himself confidence. The young cop left him. Daquin, seated behind his desk, watched him come in. He doesn’t belong to me any more. It’s still my jacket. But he’s got his moustache back already.

Soleiman sat down. Daquin took a file from a drawer in his desk and pushed it over to him.

‘That’s the original of the file about you kept by the Turkish police. If you want to go back to your own country one day, you can do so more or less safely.’

Soleiman didn’t dare believe it. Placed his hand on the file.

‘How did you manage it?’

‘That’s my business.’

Soleiman opened the file and leafed through it. A kind of mist before his eyes.

‘There aren’t any photos. I haven’t kept them as a souvenir, there never were any.’

Soleiman was struck dumb. Got up, took the file, stuffed it inside his jacket and left almost at a run.

Wednesday 28 May, noon. Parish of Saint-Bernard

Press conference. The Committee officially announced the success of their action and the beginning of legalized status for the Sentier workers. The Trades Union Confederations had sent representatives, there were many journalists from the newspapers, the radio and the television. Soleiman presided from the platform. He was the hero of the day. The file, that was still there between his jacket and his shirt, gave him a sensation of liberty.

Exciting. Four months that have changed my life. Here, nobody knows me. For them I’m only a militant. A machine for thinking and speaking, and that’s all. I’ll keep the memory of the Sentier like that of a warm stomach, the atmosphere of the streets, the cafés, the workrooms. And the memory of Daquin. His hand. The weight of his body. His gaze.

Wednesday 28 May 3p.m.Passage du Désir

Daquin on the telephone. He was looking for people who knew the French Catholic fundamentalists and were capable of talking about them in a language he could understand. In the end he came to the Jesuits. He made an appointment for the following morning with a senior member of the Order, the spokesman for the French bishops.

Thursday 29 May, noon Passage du Désir

Daquin had recalled his troops. In the absence of Lavorel they were reduced to Romero and Attali, both somewhat rested but lacking in punch. Daquin spoke to them quickly about the clue involving the Catholic fundamentalists, without giving his sources. Polite scepticism. He presented them with a summary of the various current fundamentalist attitudes, at least as far as he had understood them that morning. They took notes, they concentrated, without enthusiasm. Finally Daquin produced a map of France on which he had marked the location of fundamentalist groups with different colours indicating various shades of opinion. Pink for those closest to orthodoxy, dark red for those most hostile to the Vatican.

‘Good. There are three of us. The other police departments are not interested in my idea. Neither are you, either, but I’m your superior within the hierarchy. We’ve only time for one operation. Where shall we go?’

Attali bent over the map, suddenly interested.

‘To Rouen, obviously.’

‘I agree, to Rouen. Father Juan Roth Gomez runs a fundamentalist parish there. He was consecrated priest by Monsignor Lefebvre but left Ecône because he found the community too moderate. He’s close to the “Sedes Vacans” group who regard the Pope as heretic from the time of Vatican II. He’s a Spaniard. He’s travelled widely in Europe and has recently been staying in Germany from where his father came. On the way to Rouen, the corpses of Celebi and VL. Rouen, not far from Paris. If Agça is somewhere, he’s there. And the Pope arrives in Paris tomorrow. Romero, telephone your chum Petitjean. We’re going to call on him this afternoon. In the mean time I’m going to take you for a quick snack, to raise the morale of the troops.’

Thursday 29 May, 5.15p.m. Rouen

Daquin and his team arrived in an unmarked car outside a modest little house in a very quiet deserted street. Petitjean had done what he could to provide them with some information but in fact nobody knew anything about this house and its occupants, a priest and his old housekeeper. True, there were fiery sermons on Sundays in the nearby parish. It appeared that certain parishioners came from Paris every week to hear them. But the priest apparently led a blameless life and had a very good reputation among all the local tradespeople.

‘We’ve got no choice. We’re going in blind. Attalli, you’ve got fifteen minutes to find the ways out at the back and a point from which you can watch them. In a quarter of an hour we’re going in. If nothing’s happening after ten minutes, come and find us inside.’

Romero got out of the car to have a smoke.

*

Daquin rang the bell. An old woman who was rather stout and walked with difficulty, wearing a black smock and carpet slippers, opened the door.

‘Madame, we’re from the police, and we’d like to talk to Father Roth Gomez.’

‘Come in, gentlemen. He’s working in the dining-room, preparing his next sermon.’

She took them to the dining-room. Daquin signalled to Romero to make a quick tour of the house.

The small dining-room looked on to a garden, of which only part was visible, rough grass and three apple trees. The furniture was heavy, Henri II style, as sold by the Galeries Barbès. On the big table was a pile of books, two pads of paper and ten or so felt-tip pens of different colours. As they came in a man stood up. Tall, sturdy, young, mop of black hair, very white complexion. And a gaze … fanatical, thought Daquin, He was wearing a worn cassock.

The old woman made the introductions.

‘Father, some police officers who wish to speak to you.’

‘Sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’ Spanish accent.

‘Do you know Ali Agça?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He folded his hands. ‘He’s more than a friend. Let us say a spiritual brother.’

‘Is he here?’

‘No, not at the moment. He’s away for a few days. But he was here last Tuesday. Why these questions? Has some misfortune befallen him?’

Romero returned at that moment and indicated to Daquin that the house was empty.

‘No, not as far as I know. Has he spoken to you of his wish to kill the Pope?’

‘Monsieur, we no longer have a Pope. And it is truly our misfortune.’

‘Let’s not quibble. I mean Pope John-Paul II.’

‘The man you call John-Paul II is a heretic, a secret agent in the pay of the communists. If someone were to kill him, it wouldn’t be such a great misfortune. Since the so-called Vatican Council II the communists have infiltrated a whole section of the Catholic church. Fortunately …’

Attali came into the dining-room and leant over to Daquin: Kashguri’s Renault 5 was parked in the garden.

‘… some of us still embody the true faith, the church of former times will live again, you’ll see. I myself am at God’s disposal. I shall do what He commands me to do in order to restore the true church.’

‘I’m sure of that, Father. I don’t doubt it for a single moment. And do you also know Osman Kashguri, a friend of Agça?’

‘I don’t know his name. But someone came, about a month ago, who was sent by a friend of Ali. Unfortunately this man was a henchman of the devil.’

‘What has happened to him?’

‘I buried him in the garden.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s what I did. Where else would you want me to bury him? Not in consecrated ground, surely?’

‘Of course not. But if you buried him, he must have been dead. How did he die?’

‘God took pity on him.’

‘Father, I don’t doubt divine pity for one moment, but could you be a little more precise?’

‘After a discussion with Ali, this man asked me for hospitality. I saw at once that evil was within him. And I was afraid that he would have a bad influence on Ali, who is a pure man. But the Church is a refuge. A man of God cannot refuse aid and succour when a sinner asks him for it. I arranged for him to have the bedroom next to mine. At first everything was more or less all right. And then he began to have trances. He sweated, he trembled. He seemed to be suffering deeply. It was the first time I had seen at close quarters a man possessed of the devil. I overcame him, I fastened him down to his bed, I brought him holy water and I blessed him several times a day. At one moment he began to shout. Ali and I gagged him. I didn’t want the neighbours to know that in my house there was a man possessed of the devil. One morning I went in for the first blessing and I found him dead. I thanked God for having delivered him from his torment. Ali helped me and we buried him in the garden.’

‘Did Agça know that he was fastened to his bed?’

‘Of course. Sometimes he held conversations with him so that he would keep still.’

‘Didn’t Agça tell you that he was a heroin addict and didn’t you want to call in a doctor?’

‘A doctor for the body can do nothing when the soul is ill. And his soul was very ill. Drugs are an absolute evil. Believe me, if my prayers and my blessings were not able to help him, and my soul is very pure, then there was nothing to be done.’

‘When was he delivered from his sufferings?’

‘Last Sunday, just before the service, and I buried him before vespers.’

‘Could you show us where you buried the body?’

‘Why? I buried him very decently, and I performed all the necessary rites. And God is merciful.’

‘I don’t doubt that. But we must be able to identify the body, since you do not know his name. In order to inform the family, they too would like to pray for him, perhaps.’

‘You are right. Follow me.’

*

Daquin, standing beneath an apple tree, gazed for a long moment at the dead body of Kashguri, stretched out on the grass. Clad in a strange white nightshirt, very full, fastened at the neck and the wrists, reaching down to his knees. Provided no doubt by the housekeeper. He had been wrapped in a white sheet and buried beneath a thin layer of earth, fifteen centimetres deep beneath an apple tree in blossom. Terribly thin, as though mummified, shoulder-length hair, black rings under his eyes, his skin streaked with green. Suffering. A drugged tramp in the midst of a withdrawal crisis. Only his hands had barely changed, long and thin, folded over his chest, they still gave an impression of strength, as they had done that day in the office. Daquin thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt ferociously alive.

Romero, standing beside him, lit a small Tuscan cigar.

‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him.’

‘He doesn’t look much like the person he was when I met him. Handsome man, rather impressive. I must inform Anna of his death. She might want to arrange a funeral for him, a normal one, let us say. Romero, call the police in Rouen, let’s have done with this mad priest as soon as possible. I feel very uncomfortable here.’

Friday 30 May, 5p.m. Champs-Elysées

The crowd had gathered along the avenue, in order to get a glimpse of the Holy Father. A crowd, well … not really a crowd. Two or three rows of spectators on each side, all along the avenue, behind the protective barriers. Unmarked police cars drove up and down the whole time, on the wide pavements where traffic and parking had been prohibited. State security police officers every twenty metres, facing the crowd. Scouts everywhere. The security machine was in place.

Waiting. A helicopter landed in the place de l’Etoile. The Pope stepped out. An hour and a half late. It had been an order from the Official Travel people. He got into an open car and began to go down the avenue, standing, waving to the crowd. Cheering, people crossed themselves. At the same time, at the Rond-Point, a police car braked suddenly. Two inspectors got out, revolvers in their hands. They had just seen a man who had been sitting on an electricity transformer stand up and hoist himself into a tree, a sports kit-bag over his shoulder. Whistles blew, plainclothes police and scouts converged from all sides. The man dropped down from the tree. An inspector fired into the air. Two other shots answered him. Scuffle. Two scouts and a spectator were very slightly injured. The man disappeared into the crowd. The kit-bag remaining in the tree contained an old German MP 44. Later the fingerprints of Ali Agça would be identified. His chances of killing the Pope with that type of weapon, and at that distance, said the experts, were very slim.

A reporter for Agence France Presse, alerted by the skirmish, asked some inspectors for information. It was a lone gunman, he had been dealt with.

Telegram from Agence France Presse: Aterrorist attempts to fireat the Pope.

Astonishment and excitement in the editorial departments. The press office at police headquarters was overwhelmed with telephone calls. Categorical denial. It had been an unfortunate mistake. We arrested ‘a man with a gun’, that was to say a pickpocket and not a terrorist. Shots for a pickpocket? The press blamed the nervousness of the security services for the incident.

*

All the clandestine workers in the Sentier were given legal status. But at first the identity cards arrived in dribs and drabs. Then, when the legalization was well on the way, the military coup d’état in Turkey had just taken place. And everyone was obsessed by the violence of the repression there. In the end there was no great celebration to fête our victory. And that’s my one remaining regret from the spring of 1980.