Rough Trade

27

10 a.m. Villa des Artistes

Daquin was still in bed. Barely awake. Sounds in the kitchen. Soleiman was making the breakfast. A flood of light through the glass panel in the roof. Soleiman brought the tray up. Naked. Great blue and green bruises on his body. His face still badly marked. He put the tray down on the bed.

‘Come and say good morning to me, my boy.’

*

Both down on their knees, by the low table in the downstairs room. A large map of the Paris area. Photographs. Soleiman spoke, Daquin wrote. For each name, a photo and a record card: address, known activities, descriptions of all habits or individual characteristics that it had been possible to discover, possible links with the Association of Lighting Technicians or the shops in Faubourg Saint-Martin. For each card, a cross on the map. Soleiman had added a few names to the list, without photographs. Thirty or so people in all. Sometimes Daquin asked questions. It took three hours to complete everything.

‘Now, let’s tackle Operation Meillant.’

Daquin got up, went to the bookcase and produced a brown envelope from between two big volumes. He took out the photos of Meillant making love with the wife of Jencovitch, the boss of the workshop at the Bouffes du Nord, and put them down on the table.

‘Not bad, quite a feat.’

‘Do you also have a laugh when you show photos of me to your buddies?’

Daquin, suddenly serious, sat down on the sofa.

‘What I’m suggesting to you is a big risk for me. If you continue to persist with your victim mentality, you’re going to feel sorry about the fate of the guy you’re in process of destroying, because you’ll be thinking of yourself, and you’ll feel sorry about your own fate. And inevitably you’ll do stupid things. If you’re incapable of thinking of yourself as anything but a victim you might as well tell me now, Sol, and I’ll stop bothering.’

11 a.m. Customs Department, Roissy

Subdued activity in the commercial transactions section.

Romero and Marinoni introduced themselves: working on the drugs traffic between Turkey and Iran. Had come to have a chat with specialists, on the spot, in a totally unofficial way. In your opinion is it possible or not that drugs are getting through on a regular basis thanks to big companies officially carrying out large-scale international trade?

Some activity in the office. Men coming in, others going out. The customs officers offered coffee. The discussion became general.

‘You know, we only work efficiently through denunciation. Everything happens higher up along the line. When the companies are well known, and the flow of goods is regular, only a minute part of the delivery is checked.’

‘And can the companies know in advance which part?’

Laughter.

‘Yes and no, that depends. And then we have orders to speed up the transactions in the case of some French companies or those very close to them. And besides, we may receive orders that work the other way, when we’re told to be really meticulous with awkward foreign companies in order to make them lose a few days, or even a few months, which has happened.’

It was aperitif time. The customs office was fully manned. The name of Turkimport cropped up in conversation. A man of about forty, silent so far, was following their enquiries. He still didn’t say anything, but a little later he announced that he was going off-duty at 1 o’clock. The two inspectors came across him again, as though by accident, in the car-park. He addressed them first: ‘Where can we go for some peace and quiet?’

‘You’re the one who knows the area.’

‘There’s nothing here. Follow me, I’ll take you to the place where I live.’

Ezanville. A few kilometres from the airport. Once a little Ile-de-France village, now lost among bungalows and dormitory-style estates. A café crammed with people in a deserted street. They sat down at a little table right at the back. The atmosphere was suffocating. The customs officer introduced himself: ‘I’m Pascal Dumont. Why are you interested in Turkimport?’

Romero hardly knew what to say.

‘We’re not only interested in Turkimport. It’s just one of the names.’

‘Stop. I’m not stupid. You’ve given up a whole Sunday morning just to pick up something about Turkimport. Now that you’ve got something, take it further. I started work very early this morning, I want to get back home as soon as possible.’

‘Why do you want to talk to cops about Turkimport, outside duty hours?’

Smile. ‘Suspicious, it’s normal. But you’ll have to take risks.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’m over forty, I have a family, I lead a conventional life. It’s just that sometimes I get fed up with being told to be quick, not to try too hard. Customs officers are treated like half-wits. My brother and one of his friends were working on the flight of French capital to Switzerland. With not very orthodox methods, no doubt, but with the green light from their superiors. As long as they discovered accounts held by ordinary French people, all was well, they were heroes. Two weeks ago they brought back a print-out which included the names of members of the government. Three days later they fell into a trap set by the Swiss. They’ve been in prison over there in Basle, for over a week, and everyone’s been letting them down. Not even a word in the papers. There’s a rumour that they’ve been “exchanged” in return for information about bent coppers who have bank accounts in Switzerland. I’m helping you about Turkimport because it’s both personal vendetta and professional revenge.’

A pause. Romero and Marinoni didn’t react. Dumont went on: ‘I can tell you how the Turkimport business is carried out, at least for the export side. The papers are always in order. Deliveries every week, twenty or so packing-cases. We always check the first one, not the others. For the last two years I’ve been waiting to know what’s inside them.’

‘Why not open them?’

‘Because we have orders. Turkimport is protected.’

‘Who by?’

‘I don’t know exactly. It comes from government departments, probably going through our secret services. Are you really looking for drugs?’

‘Let’s say we are.’

‘I’d be tempted to imagine something else. Illegal transfers of technology, things of that sort. In view of the type of protection.’

‘How are the Turkimport operations carried out?’

‘Every Monday morning twenty cases arrive. Customs inspection. Then they go to the transit area and despatch takes place over a week, depending on the space available in the planes leaving for Istanbul. Turkimport doesn’t have its own airlines. Let’s get some fresh air out on the pavement.’

They stood by the cars.

‘We’ll make a date for tomorrow evening. About 10 o’clock. I’ll take you into the transit zone warehouse area, I’ll manage to leave you alone somewhere and I’ll come back for you about 2 o’clock in the morning. OK with you?’

‘OK with us.’