Rough Trade

8

7 a.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin spent some time working before his inspectors showed up. He looked at the mail on his desk: Ali Agça’s file, which he’d requested from the Turkish police, had arrived. In it was a single murder, the assassination of Abdi Ipecki, editor-in-chief of Milliyet, Turkey’s most important newspaper, in February 1979. Nothing on Ali Agça’s modus operandi or previous record. Arrested in flagrantedelicto, admitted to the murder. Imprisoned in Istanbul’s central gaol, escaped November 1979; no other details. On the wanted list ever since. Photo attached, very poor quality, difficult to identify. Daquin wrote out an envelope, slid Ali Agça’s photo inside, along with the one taken in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin. ‘Can you let me know if these two are the same person?’ Addressed it to the lab at the Palais de Justice.

His Turkish colleagues had been peculiarly laconic this time. If Soleiman’s file hadn’t been so much more complete, he’d never have been able to compromise him.

Then an alert scan of the newspapers.

‘French Connection’s impossible resurrection’ ran a headline in Libération. The journalist had done quite a lot of homework, mentioned the role of the Americans in digging up the Marseilles lead again and concluded: ‘No one has yet found a smidgen of heroin from Marseilles in New York.’ So the Drugs Squad’s special check on Marseilles was now public knowledge. But the real question that Libération did not ask was: why had the Americans systematically moved in on Marseilles? And what or who precisely was concealed under the vague term ‘Americans’?

8 a.m.

When Attali and Romero arrived, Daquin was already making the coffee. They exchanged information as they sat round the table. Anna Beric, important for sure, Lavorel was on to that. Thomas and Santoni were continuing to look for a lead connected with the Aratoff Ballets, and their telephone was being tapped. VL had been staying in New York. That had to be investigated. Sobesky? Should they question him? Daquin adamant: not immediately. Find out the lie of the land first. That would be Attali’s job for the day.

‘And Romero, I’ve something else for you. Here are four names of Turks, with their photos. Recognize them? These are photos you took. My snout’s identified them. These Turks arrived recently, around July 1979. They had their papers sorted with no problems. Why? Go and see the National Immigration Office, see if they can throw some light on these files, find some irregularity or other. But be wary, on two counts: one, don’t mention it to any of your colleagues, not even Thomas and Santoni. They work in this neighbourhood all the time, my snout lives here and I want to protect him as much as I can, and that includes from my colleagues. Two, I don’t want anyone at the Immigration Office to know what you’re working on. When it comes to drugs, you must be more than careful. Use the rogatory letters* for the Thai girl’s murder and make up some story or other.

9 a.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station

Attali and Virginie Lamouroux at a desk in a crowded, cluttered room.

‘What were you doing in New York from Saturday to Wednesday last?’

‘How d’you know I was there?’ She was shaken.

‘Answer my question.’

‘It was just a tourist trip.’

‘A bit brief.’

‘Well, that’s what it was. I had some emotional problems with my boyfriend, and I felt I needed a change of air.’

‘Sobesky’s son?’

‘You know that as well? Yes. Sobesky’s son.’

‘And the father?’

‘I work for him. That’s all.’

‘Be a bit more specific’

‘Well, he employs me on a regular basis, as a model.’

‘Why, in your opinion, did he tell the police you’d disappeared last Tuesday?’

‘I didn’t know he had. Could be I’d left his son and missed an appointment with him at work, and hadn’t let him know. Perhaps he thought I’d had an accident.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

‘I’m getting pissed off with these questions …’

Attali didn’t give her time to finish her sentence: in one move, he rose, leant over the top of the desk and gave her a resounding smack. Modelling himself on Daquin, but he didn’t quite have the self-assurance. In headquarters all conversation stopped dead. Everyone was looking at them. Virginie Lamouroux squirmed in her chair. She dearly didn’t know what attitude to adopt.

‘I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want to tell him … because, since I’ve been living with his son, I wasn’t supposed to go on sleeping with the clients, and I wanted to … for the money, and for the fun. So there.’

She’d half shouted her reply, like an insult, but she had replied. Attali thought he’d made the point. He insisted, stressing his professional approach.

‘Tell me how and where I can get in touch with people in New York who could confirm that you were there from 1 to 5 March.’

Virginie Lamouroux took out her diary. Gave him five names.

‘I’ll be checking these. Till Wednesday at 9 a.m. here.’

11 a.m. Rue des Petites-Ecuries

Thomas rang the second floor of the building. A frail old woman came and opened the door.

‘Madame, I’m a new neighbour of yours. I’m renting a flat on the fourth floor, I came to say hallo and ask a favour.’

‘Come in, monsieur.’ A sharp look. ‘And sit down a minute.’ She walked with difficulty, supporting herself on the furniture. ‘Would you like some tea, or a coffee? I suppose at this hour it’s not too early for an aperitif?’

‘No, I won’t have anything. Very nice of you though.’

‘So, what’s this favour?’ She sat down opposite him.

‘Well, it’s this: the flat I’m renting doesn’t have a cellar. The agents told me you might perhaps rent me yours.’

‘That’s not possible. I’ve already let it to people in the building, the Bernachons, I can’t go down there any more myself, you understand, so it’s of no use to me.’

‘Well, in that case, please excuse me for disturbing you.’ He stood up.

‘Is that all you’d like to know, monsieur le policier?’ Thomas was taken aback. ‘You hadn’t noticed you’re built just like a cop? And, then, how d’you suppose the tenancy on the fourth floor would change without me knowing? Oh, don’t worry. I won’t say anything to the Bernachons, I don’t really like them. But now, you can’t refuse a coffee.’

Thomas took off his mack and sat down again.

‘Well, since you’re not all that fond of them, let’s have a chat.’

11.30 a.m. Rue de la Procession

The Immigration Office’s files were in perfect order. You could access them through the surname, nationality or date of arrival in France. Romero had no difficulty finding his four Turks. They’d been invited to come by the same employer, Monsieur Franco Moreira, of Morora Ltd, a rat extermination business in Nanterre. Quite a joker, this Moreira. And their files had been dealt with by the same civil servant at Immigration, Dominique Martens. It was just as easy to find all the files of Turks processed during the year and to discover that, out of a total of a hundred, twenty-two were dealt with through Martens, and of those twenty-two, all were working at Moreira’s in Nanterre. All he had to do now was carefully note all the names, and the address of the business.

Then he went to say hallo to the director. All along the corridor, he could hear a buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clink of coffee spoons against cups. The deafening sound of inactivity.

1 p.m. Place Gaillon

As soon as he entered Chez Pierre in place Gaillon, Daquin noticed Lenglet sitting at a table at the back, with a man. They were talking and drinking champagne. There was about them that certain undeniable, calm familiarity — of old lovers. He went over to them. The two men rose to their feet. Lenglet did the introductions.

‘May I introduce Superintendent Daquin. We did political science together. We shared everything in those three years, except our bed. Théo, Charles Lespinois, an old friend, an adviser to the France-Mediterranée Bank.’

Tall, thin, with a distinguished, refined air about him. An extreme reserve. A grey three-piece suit, grey like his hair and eyes: a man of steel. Daquin thought of Sol, warm, wild, alive. Lenglet and I have stayed friends because we never hunted the same patch, he thought. All three sat down. The sommelier filled Daquin’s glass with champagne.

‘I ordered for you, Théo.’

‘You’ve always liked doing that.’

‘That’s true. Now let’s get down to business. Charles is a great fan of Turkey. And, in fact, the greatest connoisseur of Turkish political life I know.’

‘What would you like to know, commissaire?’ The calm, steady voice of a man accustomed to the reality of power.

The maître d’hôtel brought in the entrées.

Daquin was tense and barely noticed what he was eating. These complex triangular relationships. Lespinois didn’t exactly give the impression of being a well-disposed helpmate. And Lenglet, who was the most intelligent man he knew, had multiple interests in the Near East. He turned to Lespinois.

‘Quite by chance, as the result of an inquiry in Paris, I’ve fallen on a whole bunch of extreme right-wing Turks, linked, it seems to me, to the Grey Wolves. I know nothing about Turkey. I’ve a hard job to place them. I’m looking for someone who can give me some pointers.’

‘Why don’t you go directly to the Quai?’

Lenglet butted in: ‘Because Théo’s like me: he knows the men at the Quai too well to confide in them. They’d only tell him what fits in with whatever their interests are at that particular moment.’

‘So will I. I shall tell you what my interests allow me to tell you, as you know very well.’

‘Well, naturally, but it’s so much easier to suss your interests than those of the Quai!’ And Lenglet turned to Daquin. ‘In the 1960s, France-Mediterranée made a mess-up in a big way in that part of the world, and Parillaud Bank ditched them. Nowadays, they have to rely on political upsets there in order to get another foothold. To Parillaud’s disadvantage, if need be.’

Lespinois was of the same mind. Daquin relaxed a little. He could see a few signposts now, more or less. Lespinois went into gear.

‘The Turkish extreme right is organized into a legitimate party, The Turkès Nationalist Party, with a duster of clandestine armed groups surrounding it, of which the Grey Wolves is the most important. It appears very powerful nowadays, since it’s succeeded in imposing a situation of civil war, with twenty shot and killed every day. And it’s infiltrated great sections of the State hierarchy.’

‘I’ve already seen that for myself — in the police force.’

‘But it’s already beaten, because it doesn’t have any coherence. It’s an amalgam of the Nationalist civilian extreme right, more or less influenced by the Nazis and by anti-Kemalist Islamic movements. So it offers a superb field of manoeuver to every political force that counts, on the one hand, and the Turkish mafia on the other. Which one do you want me to start with?’

‘The political forces. In any case, we’ll come across the mafia along the way, I should imagine.’

‘A fraction of the army encourages extreme right-wing terrorism, because it’s using it to prepare the ground for its full return to power. The Russians play the extreme right as a destabilizing factor in a zone that’s under American influence. And the Americans …’ He made a gesture of disillusionment with his two slender hands.

Daquin recalled his year working with the FBI.

‘As usual? Everything and its opposite?’

‘The CIA’s a real can of worms there.’ He sighed. ‘One part tends towards the so-called democratic parties who’re all rotten to the core. And another part plots against them with the generals. And then some, more isolated, are acting off their own bat in some way, and infiltrate the terrorist extreme right. When you’ve the power the US has, there’s no need to be intelligent, or coherent. You always end up on the winning side anyway.’

‘Can you tell me about the ones in the CIA who’re acting independently?’

The maître d’hôtel brought the main course and refilled the glasses. Lespinois, completely absorbed in his thoughts, ate in silence and drank a glass. Then he took up where he had left off, as though he hadn’t heard the question.

‘Lenglet’s told me a bit about you, commissaire. It seems you enjoy cooking and eating well. The best food in Istanbul — and traditional Turkish cooking is very refined — you’ll find at an American’s called John Erwin, who has a very beautiful timber-built house by the Bosphorus. He entertains Istanbul society there once a month. He’s in his early sixties now. In 1943, he was twenty, was Turkish and called Mehmet Ervin. When Hitler attacked the Soviet Union, he enlisted in the Turkestan Legion and fought with the Nazis against Communism, for which he had a deep-seated and completely irrational hatred. An insane hatred. He just managed to escape the Soviets, fled to the States, became an American citizen in the middle of the cold war and returned to Turkey in the 1950s under the name of John Erwin. Officially, he deals in hides and leather. But his main job is as a CIA agent, and he’s carrying on that same fight of 1943-5, by other means. Obviously, he’s on friendly terms with everyone in the Turkish anti-Communist extreme right, But his world view is an original one. He doesn’t believe in direct military confrontation between the US and Soviets. He dreams that the Soviets will disintegrate from within, a sort of implosion that would spread from the south northwards, a gangrene that would begin in the Central Asian republics. And this gangrene is called Islam. So this man, who’s a complete atheist, supports every Islamic movement going.’

‘He seems to show some foresight with the war beginning in Afghanistan. But how does he support those Islamic movements? The CIA doesn’t have this as a general policy.’

‘This is the crux of the matter. I’ll tell you a couple of things first about the links between the Turkish extreme right and the Turkish mafia. At the present time — it hasn’t always been so — the two work almost in symbiosis. It used to be the case that the mafia provided arms for the extreme right. You’ve no idea, commissaire, of the quantity of arms the Grey Wolves have stockpiled, well beyond their needs, even if there were to be an open civil war. Probably there’s some deep psychological reason, a sort of violent collective therapy. The arms come from a zone under Soviet influence, via Bulgaria. In fact, in this region of the world, all the contraband between East and West passes through Bulgaria, whose principal source of currency it is, and through Western Turkey’s mafia. It’s therefore quite natural that Bulgaria’s become the behind-the-scenes base of the Turkish mafia, its sanctuary. As the Grey Wolves are an excellent customer of the mafia, Bulgaria welcomes them too. With one thing leading to another, the bonds are woven and that explains in part why the Soviets rely on the Turkish extreme right. Erwin finds this situation politically dangerous. He’d like to emancipate the Turkish extreme right and, more broadly, the different Islamic movements, from all dependence with regard to the suppliers of Soviet arms. For that, there’s only one way, in his opinion: drug trafficking. Not a very original solution. Lebanon and Syria have already tried it in that part of the world. On a personal level, it doesn’t bother him. He’s fond of opium himself and sees its use as part of his cultural heritage. He dreams of a powerful zone of production in Central Asia, controlled by the Islamic movements, which would finance the war against Communism. And he’s counting on the Turks to form the framework for the project — let’s say the technical cadres of the refining plants and distribution network — relying on the historical role played by the Ottoman Empire in this part of the world, the spread of the Turkish language, that sort of thing.’

Again, a silent pause. Lespinois seemed completely absorbed in his memories, or his projects. Then he went on.

‘As you can imagine, Erwin’s irreconcilably opposed to Turkey’s entry into Europe. On that line, he’ll find numerous supporters within the CIA, for a number of reasons — anti-Communism, hostility to Europe, and God knows what else … And also with those who’ve already played this game in the Golden Triangle regions, and still harbour a nostalgia for it.’

No dessert, coffees. Daquin studied the swirls his spoon made in his coffee. Once the coffee was drunk, Lespinois went on.

‘No Western enterprise can get off the ground today in the Middle East, on a large scale, without participating in one way or another in the black economy of arms and drugs, commissaire. The delicate question is how to choose your back up, your alliances.’

2 p.m. Tax office, IIIrd Arrondissement

Having done a tour of Sobesky’s showroom and admired the very distinctive style of his gear, jeans, embroidery, then checked he had no police record, Attali plunged into the voluminous file on his tax inspection, which dated from last year. He scanned it as well as he could and noticed a re-entry of significant new funds for the last two years: the sale of licensing contracts in the States, to someone called John D. Baker, a manufacturer in New York. New York? Attali noted it down, just on the off-chance.

Then he glanced at the conclusion: it all seemed to be in order, except for a few bits and pieces. Activity during the last few months before the inspection: for. more than half of its trade, the business worked with factories. The rest was with workrooms in the Sentier district. Workrooms that were widely scattered, with various, short-lived names. There was a more important partner: SEB. Manager: Anna Berk.

4 p.m. Passage du Désir

Santoni was battling with the tapes from the telephone tapping of the Aratoff Ballets. A few uninteresting conversations. The fat woman had phoned her mother. Madame Bernachon had had a natter to a woman friend. Monsieur Bernachon had organized a bridge party for the weekend. And then three telephone calls by Monsieur Bernachon to Thailand, in English. And a long, seemingly stormy, conversation between Madame and a caller from Munich. In German. Santoni understood neither English nor German. Finding translators would take time.

Lavorel, looking drawn and in a rather worn three-piece suit, seemed happy. Daquin looked up from the report that he was writing, watched him come in and sit down, without a word.

‘I’ve some news, commissaire. Can we start with the simplest: the shops. These are leased on a normal basis — through a lawyer — to a man called Darmon. A man of straw of course, but for the moment we have nothing on him. On the other hand, payment is by certified cheque from the Société Générale, guaranteed by a deposit of funds made the day before via the Bank of Cyprus and the East’s authorized representative in France, someone called Assadi, a Lebanese resident in France.’ He paused for a moment.

‘Would you mind translating that for me?’

‘The Bank of Cyprus and the East is at the centre of arms’ trafficking to the Middle East. The fact that it’s made an appearance as part of this circuitous route makes these two shops really significant.’

‘OK. I hear what you say. Do me some notes on this bank, will you. What next?’

‘Anna Beric’ Lavorel looked as though he was positively savouring this bit. ‘We began by looking at the manufacturers; the workrooms were too ephemeral: we would have lost too much time on them. So, all the manufacturers, all those we could get any details on who’ve worked with Anna Berk. We estimate she controls at least fifty or so workrooms, and has done so for at least five or six years. So it’s a rip-off that must involve tens of billions’ worth of centimes. D’you hear: tens of billions’ worth. But apparently the manufacturers are in it up to their necks. They can’t work over a period of years with a company that changes its name every three months and is perpetually “being registered” without asking themselves questions. And here’s where it hurts. They’ve certainly shared the profits with Anna Berk. She’s set up an enormous money-producing mechanism for the black economy which has infiltrated the whole of the Sentier district, but I’ve no proof. The manufacturers’ accounts are in order. I need her collaboration to scare the shit out of them for certain. So, this morning we carried out a search of her home.’

Daquin raised his eyebrows. ‘You could have talked about it to me first.’

‘But in the context of the investigation into this woman’s finances …’

‘Anna Berk’s one of our main leads for checking drugs coming from Turkey into France. Don’t start again, Lavorel, or I’ll chuck you out here and now. So, what about this search?’

‘We got nothing out of it. There wasn’t a single document left. And she’s gone, left without a forwarding address.’

Daquin leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and let silence reign. Lavorel chose to wait.

‘This woman, I must have her. You’ll have to do some research and find out first who she is. A woman who can set up a fiddle that’s as profitable and lasting as this, and in an area like the Sentier, she can’t be just anyone. She has a past. A weighty one, I don’t doubt. Did you notice, at her place, if there were any photos or keepsakes of any sort?’

Daquin had said that in a perfectly normal tone. Lavorel hesitated.

‘No. Nothing struck me.’

‘Find out her past, Lavorel. That, perhaps, will give you a clue as to where to look for her now.’

10 p.m. Parish of Saint-Bernard

Everyone has gone. Soleiman’s alone in his small windowless office that reeks of stale tobacco. Dog-tired, anxious, lonely. Yet another night. Having to go out, walk, find a bed.

Or sleep here perhaps, on a table in the committee room? He sits down. There’s the phone, with a direct line to Daquin’s office. He won’t be there at this hour. It rings once.

‘Daquin speaking.’

A moment’s silence.

‘Can I spend tonight at your place?’

*

Next morning Soleiman opens his eyes. Daquin’s already dressed, ready to leave. He kisses him on the neck.

‘I’ll leave you the key on the bedside table. It’s simpler. Do you eat pork?’

* In French law, these letters empower the police to carry out investigations.