The Empire Of The Wolves

67

Roissy Charles-de-Gaulle airport. Thursday, March 21, 4:00 PM. There is only one way to conceal a gun in an airport.

Firearm enthusiasts generally think that a Glock automatic pistol, essentially made of polymers, can slip through X-rays and metal detectors. Wrong. The barrel, repeater, firing pin, trigger, clip spring and a few other parts are still made of metal. Not to mention the bullets.

There is only one way to conceal a gun in an airport. And Sema knew it.

She remembered how as she stood in front of the windows in the airport's shopping mall while waiting to board Turkish Airlines flight TK 4067 to Istanbul.

First she bought a few clothes and a travel bag-there's nothing more suspicious than a passenger with no luggage-and then some photographic equipment. A Nikon F2 camera, two lenses, one 35- to 70-mm and the other 200-mm, then a small box of tools specially for this make, plus two lead-lined bags to protect film during security checks. She carefully put them all away in her professional Promax bag, then went to the airport restroom.

Isolated in a stall, she put the barrel, firing pin and other metal parts of her Glock 21 among the screwdrivers and pliers in the toolbox. Then she slid the tungsten bullets into the leaded containers, which block X-rays and make their contents totally invisible.

Sema was amazed at her own reflexes, at her gestures and know-how. Everything was coming back to her spontaneously. Her "cultural memory," as Ackermann had put it.

At 5:00, she calmly boarded her flight, which arrived at Istanbul at the end of the day, without being bothered by customs.

In the taxi, she did not dwell on the surrounding countryside. Night had already fallen. A slight shower was casting its ghostly reflections beneath the streetlights, matching the flow of her consciousness.

All she made out were occasional details: a peddler selling ring-shaped loaves: a few young women, their faces encircled by head scarves, melding into the tiles of a bus-stop shelter: a lofty mosque, grim and somber, which seemed to be scowling over the trees: birdcages lined up on a bank side, like hives… It all murmured to her a language that was at once familiar and distant… She turned from the window and curled up on the seat.

She chose one of the most luxurious hotels in the city center, where she merged into a welcome flow of anonymous tourists.

At 8:30, she locked her bedroom door and slumped down onto the bed, where she fell asleep with her clothes on.

The next day. Friday March 22, she awoke at 10:00 AM.

She turned on the television at once and looked for a French channel on the satellite network. She had to make do with TVs, the international service for the French-speaking world. At noon, after a debate about hunting in Switzerland and a documentary about national parks in Quebec , she finally got to see TFI news, broadcast the previous evening in France.

As she had expected, mention was made of the discovery of the body of Jean-Louis Schiffer in Père-Lachaise cemetery. But there was other news she had not been expecting: two other bodies had been found that same day in a mansion in the heights of Saint-Cloud.

Sema recognized the building and turned up the volume. The victims had been identified as Fredéric Gruss, a plastic surgeon and owner of the property, and a thirty-five-year-old police captain named Paul Nerteaux, from the First Division in Paris.

Sema was horrified.

The commentator went on: No explanation has yet been found for this double murder, but it may be linked to the death of Jean-Louis Schiffer. Paul Nerteaux had been investigating the murders of three women, committed over the past few months in the Little Turkey quarter. During his inquiries, he consulted the retired inspector, who specialized in the tenth arrondissement…"

Sema had never heard of this Nerteaux- a young, rather good-looking fellow with hair like a Japanese man but she could easily deduce what had happened. After pointlessly killing three women, the Wolves had finally found the right lead, which had taken them to Gruss, the surgeon who had operated on her during the summer of 2001. Meanwhile, this young cop must have followed the same path that led to the man in Saint-Cloud. He had turned up while the Wolves were questioning the surgeon. The situation had ended in a typical Turkish bloodbath.

Deep down, Sema had always known that the Wolves would eventually discover her new appearance. And from that moment, they would know exactly where to find her. For an extremely simple reason. Their leader was Mr. Corduroys, the lover of chocolate filled with marzipan who was a regular customer at the Maison du Chocolat. She had made that incredible discovery as soon as she had recovered her memory. His name was Azer Akarsa. Sema remembered seeing him in an Idealist camp in Adana when she was a teenager, where he was already seen as a hero…

Such was the final irony of her story. The killer who had been tracking her for months in the Turkish quarter had seen but failed to recognize her twice a week while buying his favorite confection.

According to the TV report, the events in Saint-Cloud had taken place the previous day, at around 3:00 in the afternoon. Instinctively, Sema sensed that they would await the next day before attacking the Maison du Chocolat.

In other words, right now.

Sema grabbed the phone and called Clothilde at the shop. No answer. She looked at her watch: 12:30 in Istanbul, so an hour earlier in Paris. Was it already too late? From that moment, she tried the number every thirty minutes. In vain. Powerless, she paced around her room, worrying herself to death.

At her wit's end, she went down to the hotel's business center and sat down in front of a computer. Via the Internet, she consulted the electronic version of Le Monde from Thursday evening, reading through the articles devoted to the death of Jean-Louis Schiffer and the double murder at Saint-Cloud.

Absentmindedly, she browsed through the other pages and came across some more unexpected news. The article was entitled "Suicide of a Top Police Officer." There, in black and white, was the announcement of the death of Laurent Heymes. The lines wavered before her eyes. His body had been discovered on Thursday morning, in his apartment on Avenue Hoche. Laurent had used his service revolver-a 38-mm Manhurin. As to his motives, the article briefly mentioned the suicide of his wife, a year before, and the fact that friends said he had been depressed ever since.

Sema concentrated on these densely worded lies, but she could no longer read the words. Instead, all she could see were pale hands, a slightly panicked stare, flaming blond hair… She had loved that man. A strange, disturbing love, mixed up with her hallucinations. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she held them back.

She thought of the young cop. dead in that villa in Saint-Cloud, who, in a way, had sacrificed himself for her. She had not wept for him. So she would not weep for Laurent, who had been one of her manipulators.

The most intimate one. And thus the biggest bastard.

At 4:00, she was still there, chain-smoking, with one eye on the television and the other on the computer, when the bomb exploded. It appeared in the new electronic edition of Le Monde, in the "France-Societe" section:

SHOOT-OUT ON RUE DU FAUBOURG SAINT-HONORE

At noon on Friday, March 22. the police were still present at 225 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré after a gun battle in a shop called La Maison du Chocolat. No explanation has yet been given for this spectacular shoot-out, which has left three people dead and two wounded, three of them from the ranks of the police.

From the initial reports, especially the testimony of Clothilde Ceaux, a shop assistant who escaped unscathed, it appears that the sequence of events was as follows: At 10:10, just after the shop opened, three men arrived. Some police officers in civilian clothes, who had been stationed just opposite, immediately intervened. The three men then produced automatic pistols and opened fire on the police. The gun battle lasted only for a few seconds, on either side of the street, but was extremely brutal. Three officers were hit, one fatally. The two others are in a critical condition.

Two of the assailants were killed, but the third escaped. They have been identified as Lüset Yildirim, Kadir Kir and Azer Akarsa, all Turkish nationals. The dead men, Yildirim and Kir, both had diplomatic passports. It has proved impossible to find out how long they have been in France. and the Turkish embassy has refused to comment.

According to the police, the two men were known to the Turkish authorities as members of an extreme right-wing group known as the Idealists or Grey Wolves, and they had already carried out a number of contract killings on behalf of Turkey 's organized crime cartels.

The identity of the third man, who managed to flee, is even more surprising. Azer Akarsa is a businessman who has had extraordinary success in the tree-farming sector in Turkey and enjoys a good reputation in Istanbul. He is known for his patriotic views, but he backs a modern, moderate nationalism that is compatible with democratic values. He has never had any dealings with the Turkish police.

The involvement of such a person in these events suggests a political motivation. But the real reasons remain obscure. Why did the Turks go to the Maison du Chocolat armed with assault rifles and handguns? Why were there policemen in civilian clothes (in fact, officers from the Division Nationale Antiterroriste, or DNAT) stationed across the street? Were they following the three criminals? It is known that they had had the shop under surveillance for the past few days. Were they preparing an ambush for the three Turks? If so, why take so many risks? Why attempt an arrest on a busy thoroughfare, in the middle of the day, when no warning had been given? The Public Prosecutor's Office is concerned about these anomalies and has ordered an internal inquiry.

According to our sources, one lead is being favored. The gun battle on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré could be linked to two other cases of murder, which were reported in yesterday's edition: the discovery on the morning of March 21 of the body of retired inspector Jean-Louis Schiffer in Père-Lachaise, then the bodies of police captain Paul Nerteaux and of plastic surgeon Frédéric Gruss later that day in a villa in Saint-Cloud. Over the last five months, Captain Nerteaux had been investigating the murders of three unidentified women in the tenth arrondissement of Paris and had consulted Jean-Louis Schiffer, an expert on the capital's Turkish community.

This series of murders could lie at the heart of a complicated affair, both criminal and political, that seems to have escaped the attention of both Paul Nerteaux's superiors and the investigating magistrate, Thierry Bomarzo. Further confirmation of a link lies in the fact that one hour before his death, the captain had put out a bulletin on Azer Akarsa and requested a search warrant for Matak Limited, in Bièvres, one of whose main shareholders is Azer Akarsa. When his portrait was shown to Clothilde Ceaux, the main eyewitness of the shooting, she formally identified him.

The other key figure in this case could turn out to be Philippe Charlier, one of the commissioners of the DNAT, who clearly has some information concerning the assailants. Philippe Charlier is a major figure in the war against terrorism, but one whose methods have proved controversial. He has been summoned later today by Judge Bernard Sazin, who is leading the initial inquiry.

This confusing series of events occurs in the middle of a presidential campaign, with Lionel Jospin planning to merge the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire (DST) with the Direction des Renseignements Généraux (DCRG). This projected merger is aimed no doubt at reducing the sometimes excessive independence of certain police officers or secret service operatives.

Sema closed her browser before making her own personal summary of the events. On the good side, Clothilde was safe and Charlier had been summoned by a judge. Sooner or later, he would have to answer for all these deaths, as well as the "suicide" of Laurent Heymes…

On the negative side, Sema placed just one point, but it outweighed all the others.

Azer Akarsa was still at large.

And this threat confirmed her decision.

She had to find him and, further up the line, discover who had put out this contract. She did not know, had never known, his name. But she knew that little by little, she would expose the entire pyramid.

At that moment, all she was sure of was that Akarsa would return to Turkey. He was probably already back, being sheltered by his people, protected by complacent police officers and politicians.

She grabbed her coat and left the room.

It was in her memory that she would find the path that led to him.

68

First, Sema went to the Galata bridge, near her hotel. She looked long and hard at the far side of the canal of the Golden Horn, the city's most famous panorama. The Bosporus and its boats; the Eminönü quarter and the New Mosque; the stone terraces and flights of pigeons; the domes and arrowlike minarets, from which five times a day the voices of the muezzins poured out.

Cigarette.

She did not feel like a tourist, but she did feel that this town-her town-might provide her with a clue, a spark to give her back all of her memory. For the moment, she could still see the past of Anna Heymes, which was being gradually replaced by confused sensations, linked to her daily life as a drug smuggler. Snatches from an obscure trade, with no clear reference points, no personal details that could give her the slightest indication how to find her brothers again.

She hailed a cab and asked the driver to cruise through the city, at random. She spoke Turkish without an accent, and without the slightest hesitation. That language burst from her lips as soon as she needed it-like a source hidden in her inner self. So why was she thinking in French? Was it an effect of her psychic conditioning? No. This familiarity went back further than that. It was an essential part of her personality. During her life, her education, there had been this strange implant…

Through the window, she observed each detail: the red Turkish flags, decked with a golden crescent and star, which marked the town like a wax seal; the blue walls and the brown buildings, stained with pollution; the green roofs and domes of the mosques, which oscillated between jade and emerald in the light.

The taxi drove along a wall: Hatun Caddesi. Sema read the names on the signposts: Aksaray, Kücükpazar, Carsamba… They resonated vaguely inside her, evoking no particular emotions or distinct recollections.

Yet, more than ever, she sensed that something, anything-a monument, a sign, a street name-could stir up that quicksand and shift aside the memory blocks within her. Like wrecks lying on the seabed, which you only need to brush against for them to drift back up to the surface…

The driver asked, "Devam edelim mi?"' ("Shall we continue?")

"Evet." ("Yes.")

Haseki. Nisanca. Yenikapi.

Another cigarette.

The din of traffic, the tide of passersby. The urban press culminated here. Yet, the overall impression was of gentleness. Spring was making the shadows quiver above this tumult. A pale light glittered though the ironlike air. A silver gleam hung over Istanbul, a sort of gray coating smothering any violence. Even the trees had something worn about them, a cinder coat that calmed and soothed the spirit…

Suddenly, a word on a poster drew her attention. A few syllables on a red- and- gold background.

"Take me to Galatasaray," she told the driver.

"To the school?"

"Yes, the school. To Beyoglu."

69

A large square. on the outskirts of the Taksim quarter. Banks, flags and international hotels. The driver parked at the entrance of the pedestrian precinct.

"It will be quicker on foot," he explained. "Take Istiklal Caddesi. Then after about a hundred yards, you-"

"I know"

Three minutes later. Sema had reached the railings of the school, jealously protected by the somber gardens. She went through the gate and dived into what was almost a forest. Firs, cypresses, eastern planes and lime trees, with their green blades, soft shades, shadowy mouths… Sometimes a patch of bark added some gray, or even black. On other occasions, a tip or bough split into a lighter line-a broad pastel smile. Or else dry almost blue thickets with the transparency of tracing paper. The whole spectrum of vegetation was on display.

Beyond the trees, she spotted a yellow facade, surrounded by sports fields and basketball courts. It was the school. Sema stayed hidden among the boughs and looked at the pollen-colored walls, the neutral cement surfaces. The badge of the school, an S intertwined with a G, red trimmed with gold, on the navy blue sweaters of the pupils walking there.

But above all, she listened to the rising din. It was a sound that is identical in all latitudes: the joy of children freed from school. It was noon. Time for the lunch break. More than a familiar noise, it was a call, a rallying cry. Sensations suddenly gathered around her, entwining her.. Suffocated by emotion, she sat down on a bench and let the images of the past flood in.

First her village, in distant Anatolia. Beneath a limitless, merciless sky, the wattle and daub huts, clinging to the sides of the mountains.

The rippling planes of high grasses. The flocks of sheep on the steep slopes, trotting along at an angle, as gray as filthy paper. Then, in the valley, the men, women and children living like stones, broken by the heat and the cold..

Later, the camp-a disused spa resort, surrounded by barbed wire, somewhere in the Kayseri region. The daily indoctrination, training and exercises. Mornings spent reading Alpaslan Türkes's Nine Lights, repeating nationalistic doctrines, watching silent films on Turkish history. Hours devoted to learning the basics of ballistics, telling the difference between different sorts of explosives, shooting with assault rifles, handling knives…

Then suddenly, the French school. Everything changed. A suave, refined environment. But it was probably even worse. She was the peasant. The girl from the mountains, among the sons of notables. She was also the fanatic, the nationalist holding on to her Turkish identity and ideals amid middle-class, left-wing pupils all dreaming of becoming Europeans…

It was here, at Galatasaray, that she had fallen so much in love with the French language that in her mind, she turned it into her new mother tongue. She could still hear the dialect of her childhood, those clashingly crude syllables, being gradually supplanted by these new words, those poems and books that modulated her slightest thought and molded each new idea. The world then, quite literally, became French.

Then the time came to travel. Opium. The fields in Iran, set in steps above the jaws of the desert. The patches of poppies in Afghanistan between the fields of corn and vegetables. She could picture that nameless, undefined frontier. A no-man's-land of dust, dotted with mines, haunted by wild buccaneers. She remembered the wars. The tanks, the Stingers-and the Afghan rebels playing their game of buskachi with the head of a Soviet soldier.

She could also see the laboratories. Airless structures full of men and women wearing cloth masks. The white dust and acidic fumes, the morphine base and the refined heroin… her real work had begun.

It was then that the face became clear.

So far, her memory had worked in only one direction. Each time, a face had acted as a detonator. Schiffer's appearance had been enough to bring back the previous months' activities-the dope, running away concealment. Azer Akarsa's smile raised up the camps, nationalist meetings, men brandishing their fists, with their pinkie and index fingers raised, screaming high-pitched wails or else crying "Türkes basbug!" -and had identified her as a Wolf.

But now, in the gardens of Galatarasay, the opposite was happening. Her memories revealed a pattern of leitmotifs that crossed each fragment of her recollections'… At first, a clumsy child, right back at the beginning. Then an awkward teenager, at the French school. Later, a fellow smuggler. In those underground laboratories, it was definitely always the same pudgy figure, dressed in a white coat, that was smiling at her.

Over the years, a child had grown by her side. A blood brother. A Grey Wolf who had shared everything with her. As she concentrated, his face became clearer. Babyish features beneath honey-colored curls. Blue eyes, like two turquoises placed among the rocks of the desert.

Suddenly a name emerged: Kürsat Milihit.

She stood up and decided to go inside the school. She needed confirmation.

Sema introduced herself to the headmaster as a French journalist and explained the subject of her report: former Galatarasay pupils who had become celebrities in Turkey.

The headmaster laughed in pride. What could be more natural than that?

A few minutes later, she found herself in a small room, its walls lined with books. In front of her, the files covering all the classes over the past few decades-names and pictures of former pupils, the dates and any prizes awarded each year. With no hesitation, she opened the register for 1988 and turned to the final year. Her year. She did not look for her previous face; the very idea of looking at it made her feel ill at ease, as though she were touching a taboo subject. No. She looked for the portrait of Kürsat Milihit.

When she found it, her memories grew even more precise. The childhood friend. The traveling companion. Today, Kürsat was a chemist. The best in his field. Able to transform any gum base into the best morphine, and then distill the purest heroin. His magician's fingers knew better than anyone how to manipulate acetic anhydride.

Over the years, she had organized all of her operations with him. During the final convoy, it was he who had reduced the heroin to a liquid solution. It was Sema's idea: they injected the smack into the air cells of bubble bags. If they put a hundred milliliters in each envelope, then only ten of them would be needed to transport a kilo-so two hundred for the entire load. Twenty kilos of number four heroin, in a liquid solution, concealed within translucent packaging containing banal documents, to be picked up at the freight terminal of Roissy airport.

She looked again at the photo. That large teenager with the milky forehead and copper curls was not just a ghost from the past. He had now a vital role to play.

He alone could help her find Azer Akarsa.

70

An hour later, Sema was in a cab crossing the huge steel bridge over the Bosporus. The storm broke just at that moment. In only a few seconds, as the car touched the Asian bank, the rain marked off its territory with violence. At first, there were needles of light hitting the pavements, then puddles, spreading, seeping, hammering as if on tin roofs. Soon, the entire landscape was weighed down. Dark spray swished up in the wakes of the cars, the roads swayed and drowned…

When the cab reached the Beylerbeyi quarter, snug beneath the bridge, the shower had turned into a downpour. A gray wave wiped out all visibility, mixing cars, pavement and houses into a shifting fog. The entire neighborhood seemed to be dissolving into a liquid state -a pre-historic chaos of peat and mud.

Sema decided to get out of the cab on Yaliboyu Street. She slipped between the cars and took shelter beneath an awning amid the row of shop fronts. She paused for a moment to buy an oilskin-a pale green poncho-then she tried to get her bearings. This neighborhood was like a village-a scale model of Istanbul. Its sidewalks were as narrow as ribbons, its houses clumped together, its roads like pathways leading down to the riverside.

She dived down Yaliboyu Street, toward the river. To her left, the cafés were closed, the bars had shrunk back beneath their awnings, the stalls covered with tarpaulin and to her right, a blank wall, sheltering the gardens of a mosque. A red, porous rubble surface zigzagged, its cracks sketching in a melancholy geography. Lower down, beneath the gray foliage, the waters of the Bosporus could be heard, rumbling and rolling like kettledrums in an orchestra pit.

Sema felt overwhelmed by fluidity. Drops hammered on her head, beating her shoulders, swarming over her poncho… Her lips tasted of clay. Her face seemed to become liquid, shifting, moving…

On the riverbank, the downpour intensified, as though freed by the open stretch of water. The land seemed about to drift away and follow the flow as far as the sea. Sema could not stop herself from shaking, sensing in the streams of her veins the scraps of the continent that were being shaken to their foundations.

She retraced her steps and looked for the entrance to the mosque. The wall she walked beside was flaking, pierced by the rusty bars of windows. Above it, the domes glistened and the minarets seemed to be launched higher by the rain.

As she walked on, more memories crowded in. Kürsat was nicknamed "the Gardener" because botany was his specialty-in particular, poppies. Here, he cultivated his own wild species, concealed in the gardens. Every evening, he came to Beylerbeyi to inspect his papavers…

Going through the gate, she entered a courtyard of marble tiles, with a row of basins along the ground, used for ablutions before prayers. She crossed the patio, noticing a group of white-and-yellow cats curled up along the windows. One of them had an eye missing. Another had its nose covered in blood.

After a further gate, she at last reached the gardens.

The vision moved her heart. Trees, shrubs and undergrowth spreading chaotically. Overturned soil. Branches as black as licorice. Thickets stuck with tiny leaves, tight as clumps of mistletoe. A luxuriant world, animated and tickled by the downpour.

She walked on, lulled by the scent of flowers, the dull odor of the soil. Here the hammering of the rain became more muted. The drops bounced off the leaves in a dull pizzicato, streams of water slipping from the foliage in harp strings. Sema thought, The body responds to music with dance. The earth responds to rain with gardens.

Pushing aside the branches, she came across a large vegetable patch, hidden between the trees. Bamboo props stood high, squat tubs were full of humus, upside-down jars protected young shoots. It looked to Sema like an open-air greenhouse or nursery. She took another step or two. The Gardener was there.

Kneeling on the ground, he was bent over a row of poppies protected by transparent plastic sachets. He was slipping a probe into the pistil, at the point where the alkaloid capsule is situated. Sema did not recognize the species in question. It was undoubtedly a new hybrid, which flowered early. Experimental poppies, right in the middle of Istanbul…

As though sensing her presence, the chemist looked up. His hood concealed his eyebrows, barely revealing his heavy features. A smile rose to his lips, even more rapidly than the delight in his stare.

"Your eyes. I'd have recognized you thanks to your eyes."

He spoke in French. It was a game they used to play-another mark of complicity. She did not reply. She imagined what he could see: a scrawny figure beneath a green hood, with emaciated, unrecognizable features. And yet Kürsat did not seem at all surprised. He knew about her new appearance. Had she told him? Or had the Wolves done so? Friend or foe? She had only a few seconds to decide. This man had been her confidant, her accomplice. So she must have told him about her plans.

Kürsat Milihit shifted about awkwardly. He was only just taller than Sema and was wearing a cotton smock beneath a plastic apron. He stood up. "Why have you come back?"

She said nothing, letting the rain mark the passage of time. Then, her voice muffled by her cape, she replied in French, "I want to know who I am. I've lost my memory"

"What?"

"I was arrested by the police in Paris. They made me undergo special mental conditioning. I'm amnesiac."

"That's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible in our world. You know that as well as I do.”

“You… can't remember anything?"

"Everything I know, I've found out for myself"

"But why come back? Why don't you just vanish?"

"It's too late for that. The Wolves are after me. They know my new face. I want to negotiate."

He carefully put down the flower, with its plastic hood, among the jerry cans and bags of leaf mold. He glanced at her sharply. "Have you still got it?"

Sema did not answer.

He asked again, "Have you still got the dope?"

"I'm the one asking the questions," she replied. "Who's behind this operation?"

"We never know any names. That's the rule."

"The rules have been broken. When I went out on my own, I overturned them. They must have questioned you. Some names must have been mentioned. Who commissioned that consignment?"

Kürsat hesitated. The rain slapped down on his hood, streaming across his face. "Ismail Kudseyi."

The name struck her memory-Kudseyi, the grand master-but she pretended not to remember. "Who's that?"

"I can't believe you've lost that many marbles."

"Who is he?" she repeated.

"The most important baba in Istanbul," he said, lowering his voice, quieter than the rain. "He was setting up an alliance with the Uzbeks and the Russians. The consignment was a trial run. A test. A symbol. It vanished along with you."

She smiled through the crystal drops.

"Things must be rosy between the partners."

"War is imminent. But Kudseyi doesn't give a damn. What he's obsessed about is you. Finding you again. It isn't even a question of money. It's a matter of honor. He can't admit that he's been betrayed by one of his own. We are his Wolves. His creatures."

"His creatures?"

The instruments of the cause. We were educated, indoctrinated, brought up as Wolves. When you were born, you were nobody. A lousy peasant raising sheep. Like me. Like the others. The camps gave us everything. Faith. Power. Knowledge."

Sema needed to find out the essential information, but she could not resist digging for more facts, further details. "Why are we speaking in French?"

A smile inched its way over Kürsat's chubby face. A smile of pride. "We were chosen. In the 1980s, the refs, the chiefs, decided to set up an underground army, with its officers and elite soldiers. Wolves who could mingle with the highest social strata."

"Was it Kudseyi's idea?"

"He started the project off, but with everyone's approval. Emissaries from his foundation were sent to the clubs in Anatolia. They were looking for the most gifted, most promising children. The idea was to provide them with the best possible education. It was a patriotic project. Knowledge and power were being given back to the real Turks, to the children of Anatolia, instead of the bourgeois scum of Istanbul…"

"And we were chosen?"

The pride swelled even further. "Yes, and sent to Galatasaray, along with a few others, thanks to grants from the foundation. How can you have forgotten all that?"

Sema did not answer. Kürsat went on, in an increasingly exalting voice. "We were twelve years old. We were already little baskans, chiefs of our region. First we spent a year in a training camp. When we got to Galatasaray, we already knew how to use an assault rifle. We knew entire sections of Nine Lights by heart. Then suddenly we were surrounded by decadents who listened to rock music, smoked cannabis, imitated Europeans-fucking Communists… To survive, we stuck together, Sema. Like brother and sister. The two bumpkins from Anatolia. The two paupers with their pathetic grants… But no one knew how dangerous we were. We were already Wolves. Fighters who had infiltrated a forbidden world. So as to struggle all the better against that Red scum! Tanri türk'ü korusunr!*"

"God save the Turks!"

Karsat raised his fist, with his pinkie and index fingers raised. He was doing his utmost to look like a fanatic, but he just came across as being what he always had been: a sweet, awkward child who had been conditioned into violence and hatred.

Motionless among the props and foliage, she asked. "What happened then?"

"For me, a science degree. For you, the modern languages department at the Bogaziçi University. At the end of the 1980s, the Wolves took over the dope market. They needed specialists. Our roles had already been set down. Chemistry for me, transportation for you. There were many more Wolves in high places. Diplomats, CEOs…"

"Like Azer Akarsa."

Kürsat jumped. "How do you know that name?"

"He was on my trail in Paris."

He shook the rain off himself like a hippopotamus. "They sent out the worst one of them all. If he's looking for you, then he'll find you.”

“I'm the one who's looking for him. Where is he?"

"How should I know?"

The Gardener's voice rang false. At that instant, she was pricked by a suspicion. She had almost forgotten her side to the story. Who had betrayed her? Who had told Akarsa that she was hiding in Gurdilek's baths? But she kept that question for later…

The chemist continued, slightly too hastily "Do you still have it? Do you still have the dope?"

"I've told you. I've lost my memory"

"If you want to negotiate, you can't come back empty-handed. Your only chance is to-"

She suddenly asked, "Why did I do that? Why did I try to double-cross everyone?"

"You alone know that."

"I involved you in my scheme. I put you in danger. I must have explained my reasons."

He gestured vaguely "You never accepted your destiny. You were always saying that they'd forced us to obey. That we had no choice. But what choice did we have? Without them, we'd still be shepherds. Bumpkins at the far end of Anatolia."

"If I'm a drug dealer, then I have money. Why didn't I just disappear? Why did I steal the heroin?"

Kürsat sneered. "You wanted more. You wanted to screw them. To set one clan against the other. This mission gave you a chance to get your revenge. When the Uzbeks and the Russians get here, it'll be mayhem."

The rain slowed. Night was falling. Kürsat gradually sank into the shadows, as if he was fading away. Above them, the domes of the mosque looked fluorescent.

The idea of betrayal forced its way back. She now had to go to the bitter end. She had to get this over with. "What about you?" she asked coldly. "How come you're still alive? They didn't come to question you?"

"Of course they did."

And you told them nothing?"

The chemist seemed to shiver. "I had nothing to say. I knew nothing. All I did was to transform the heroin in Paris and come back home. Then no one heard from you again. Nobody knew where you were. Especially not me." His voice was trembling.

She suddenly felt sorry for him. Kürsat, my Kürsat, how have you survived so long?

The fat man went on at once: "They trust me, Sema. Really they do. I'd done my part of the job. I didn't hear from you again. After you'd hidden in Gurdilek's place, I thought "

"Who mentioned Gurdilek? Was it me?" She now understood. Kürsat knew everything but had revealed only part of the truth to Akarsa. He had saved his skin by providing him with her Paris address but had said nothing about her new face. Thus had her blood brother negotiated with his own conscience.

The chemist stood there for a moment, his mouth agape, as though dragged down by the weight of his chin. The next moment, he stuck his hand beneath a plastic sheet. Sema aimed her Glock from beneath her cape and fired. The Gardener crashed back between the shoots and the jars.

Sema knelt down. This was her second murder after Schiffer. But from the confidence of her movements, she realized that she had killed before. And in this way. With a handgun. at point-blank range. When? How many times? She had no idea. On that point, her memory was still a sterile zone.

She looked at Kürsat. lying motionless among the poppies. Death had already smoothed out his features. Innocence was slowly rising back across his face, which was free at last.

She searched the corpse. Beneath his smock, she found a cell phone. One of the numbers in its memory was labeled Azer. She stuck it in her pocket, then stood up. The rain had stopped. Darkness had taken hold of the place. The gardens were breathing at last. She looked up toward the mosque. The drenched domes seemed like green ceramic, the minarets about to take off for the stars.

Sema remained for a few more seconds beside the body. Inexplicably, something clear and precise surged up inside her. She now knew why she had done what she had done. Why she had fled with the dope.

To be free, of course.

But also to avenge a particular wrong.

Before proceeding any further, she had to check that. She had to find a hospital. And a gynecologist.

71

All night spent writing.

A letter of twelve pages, addressed to Mathilde Wilcrau, Rue Le Goff, Paris, fifth arrondissement. In it, she told her life story in detail. Her origin. Her education. Her job. And the last consignment.

She also provided names: Kürsat Milihit, Azer Akarsa. Ismail Kudseyi. She placed each person, each pawn on the chessboard. Describing their precise roles and positions. Putting back together each fragment of the puzzle…

Sema owed her these explanations. She had promised her in the crypt at Père-Lachaise, but above all she wanted to make her story intelligible to the psychiatrist who had risked her life for nothing in return.

When she wrote Mathilde on the white hotel notepad, when she maneuvered her pen around that name, Sema said to herself that she had perhaps never possessed anything so solid as those letters.

She lit a cigarette and paused to remember. Mathilde Wilcrau. A tall, sturdy woman with a mane of black hair. The first time she had observed her bright red smile, an image had come to mind: the poppy stalks she used to burn so as to conserve their color.

Today, now that she could recall her origins, the comparison had recovered its full meaning. That sandy landscape did not belong to the French moors, as she had thought, but to the deserts of Anatolia. The flowers were wild poppies-a hint of opium already… Sema used to shiver with excitement and fear when burning those stalks. She had sensed a secret, inexplicable link between the dark flame and the bright blooming of the buds.

That same mystery scintillated in Mathilde Wilcrau. A burned region within her reinforced the absolute redness of her smile.

Sema finished her letter. She hesitated for a moment. Should she add what she had learned in the hospital a few hours before? No. That was nobody's business but hers. She signed the page, then slid it into an envelope.

Four o'clock flashed on the radio alarm clock in her bedroom.

She thought over her plan one more time. Kürsat had said: You can't come back empty-handed. Neither Le Monde nor the television news had mentioned that there had been heroin scattered around the crypt. So it was quite likely that Azer Akarsa and Ismail Kudseyi did not know that it had been lost. Thus, Sema had a virtual object to bargain with…

She put the envelope by the door, then went to the bathroom.

She turned on the tap in the basin and grabbed a cardboard box, purchased earlier that evening in a hardware store in Beylerbeyi.

She poured the pigment into the sink, contemplating its reddish swirls that faded in the water and froze into a brown mash.

For a few seconds, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her smashed face. broken bones and stitched skin. Under her apparent beauty lay another lie…

She smiled at her reflection, then murmured, "I have no choice." Gingerly, she dipped her index finger into the henna.

72

Five o'clock. Haydarpasa station. A point of arrival and departure for both boats and trains.

Everything was just as she remembered. The central building, a U surrounded by two huge towers, open onto the straits like a greeting in welcome to the sea. Then, all around, the seawalls forming lines of stone, digging out a labyrinth of water. On the second one, a lighthouse stood at the end of the jetty. An isolated tower, placed above the channels.

At that time of the morning, everything was dark, cold, empty. Only a weak light wavered from inside the station, through the windows covered with a reddish, intermittent steam.

The kiosk of the iskele-the departure pier-was also glistening, reflecting a blue stain in the water, which was weaker still, almost mauve.

Shoulders high and collar up, Sema walked beside the building, then alongside the seawall. This sinister scene suited her. She had been counting on just this inert, silent desert, weighed down by frost. She went toward the jetty used by pleasure boats. The insistent slapping of the cables and sails followed her.

Sema examined each yacht, each skiff. Finally she spotted a boat whose owner was asleep, curled up under a tarpaulin. She woke him up and started negotiating at once. The haggard man accepted the sum on offer. It was a fortune. She assured him that she would not go out farther than the second seawall, that he would never lose sight of his boat. He accepted, started up the engine without a word, then stepped out onto land.

Sema took the bar. Drawing away from the pier, she maneuvered the boat between the other vessels. She followed the first wall, swerved around its far end, then went along the second one, as far as the lighthouse. There was not a sound as she passed. The only presence that broke through the shadows came from a single distant cargo ship. Under the lights of the projectors, beaded with dew, shadows flittered. For a second, she felt at one with these gilded ghosts.

She drew the boat up by the rocks, moored it and went over to the lighthouse. Without any difficulty, she forced open the door. The interior was cramped, icy and hostile to any human presence. The lamp was automatic and did not seem to need anyone's help. At the top of the tower, the huge projector revolved slowly on its pivot, giving off long groans.

Sema turned on her flashlight. The circular wall beside her was filthy and damp. The floor was dotted with puddles. Sema could hear the rushing of the water beneath her feet. It made her think of a stone question mark at the end of the world. A place of total solitude. The ideal location.

She grabbed Kürsat's phone and punched in Azer Akarsa's number. There was a ring. Then an answer. Silence. After all, it was only five in the morning…

In Turkish, she said, "It's Sema."

The silence continued. Then Azer Akarsa's voice sounded in her ear. "Where are you?"

"In Istanbul."

"Do you have anything to suggest?"

"A meeting. Just you and me. On neutral ground."

"Where?"

"At Haydarpasa station. On the second seawall, there's a lighthouse."What time?"

"Now. You come alone. By boat."

There was a smile in his voice. "So you can pick me off like a rabbit?”

“That won't solve my problems."

"I don't see what can solve your problems."

"You'll find out when you get here."

"Where's Kürsat?"

The number had presumably flashed up on the screen. There was no point lying.

"He's dead. I'll be expecting you. At Haydarpasa. Alone. And rowing."

She hung up and looked out through the barred window. The seaport was waking up. A slow movement, groggy from dawn, had started. A ship slid down the rails and rose up in the waves, before gliding under the arches of the brightly lit warehouses.

Her observation post was perfect. From there, she could keep an eye on both the train station and the jetties, the pier and the first seawall. No one could sneak up on her.

Shivering, she sat down on the steps.

Cigarette.

Her mind wandered. A memory rose up, for no apparent reason. The warmth of plaster on her skin. The strips of gauze on her tormented flesh. The unbearable itching under the dressings. She remembered her convalescence, between waking and sleeping, dozy with sedatives. And above all the shock of seeing her new face, swollen fit to burst, black and blue with bruises, covered with dried scabs…

They'd pay for that.

5:15.

The cold bit into her almost like a burn. Sema stood up, stamping her feet and flapping her arms to ward off the numbness. Those recollections of her operation brought her back to her latest discovery, a few hours before, at Istanbul Central Hospital. In reality, it had merely been a confirmation. She could now remember clearly that day in March 1999 in London. A mild inflammation of the colon, which had forced her to have X-rays done. And then to accept the truth.

How had they dared do that to her? Mutilate her for life?

That was why she had fled.

That was why she was going to murder all of them.

5:30.

The cold dug into her bones. Her blood flowed toward her vital organs, gradually abandoning her extremities to chilblains and frostbite. Before long, she would be paralyzed.

Mechanically, she walked as far as the door. She left the lighthouse stiffly and forced herself to liven up her legs by walking along the wall. The only source of heat left was her own blood. She had to make it circulate, to fill her entire body once more…

Voices could be heard in the distance. Sema looked up. Some fishermen were landing on the first wall. She had not foreseen that. Not so early, at least.

Through the darkness, she could see their lines already flicking across the waters. Were they really fishermen?

She looked at her watch- 5:45.

She would go in a few minutes. She could not wait for Azer Akarsa any longer. Instinctively she knew that wherever he was in Istanbul, half an hour would be enough for him to reach the station. If he needed more time than that, then it was because he was organizing something, preparing a trap.

A slapping sound. In the shadows, the wake of a rowing boat opened out over the water. It passed the first wall. A figure was bending above the oars with slow full, regular movements. A ray of moonlight flickered across his corduroy-clad shoulders.

At last, the boat touched the rocks.

He got to his feet, picking up the mooring rope. His gestures and the sounds were so banal that they became almost unreal. Sema could not believe that the man whose sole aim in life was to kill her was now just two yards away. Despite the lack of light, she could make out his worn, olive green corduroy jacket, his thick scarf his mop of hair… When he bent over to throw her the rope, she even caught a fleeting glimpse of his mauve eyes.

She caught the rope and tied it to her own. Azer was about to step onto land when she stopped him, brandishing her Glock. "The tarpaulins," she whispered.

He looked over at the old sheets piled in the boat.

"Lift them up."

lie did so. The bottom was empty.

"Come here. Slowly" She stepped back, to allow him onto the wall. She motioned to him to lift his arms. With her left hand, she frisked him. No gun.

"I'm playing by the rules," he murmured.

She pushed him toward the door, then followed him. When she went inside, he was already sitting on the iron steps.

A transparent sachet had appeared in his hands. "A chocolate?"

Sema did not reply.

He took one out and lifted it to his lips. "Diabetes," he said apologetically. "My insulin treatment causes drops in my blood sugar level. It's impossible to find the right dose. Several times a week, I get violent attacks of hypoglycemia, which are worsened by strong emotion. So I need sugar."

The wrapping paper glittered in his hands. Sema thought of the Mai-son du Chocolat, of Paris and Clothilde. Another world.

"In Istanbul, I buy marzipan wrapped in chocolate. A specialty of a confectioner in Beyoglu. In Paris, I found Jikolas…" He delicately placed the packet on the metal structure. Whether it was feigned or genuine, his coolness was impressive. The lighthouse slowly filled with lead blue light. The day was starting to come up while the pivot at the top continued to moan.

"Without these chocolates." he added. "I'd never have found you.”

“You never did find me."

A smile. He slid his hand once more toward his jacket.

Sema lifted her gun.

Azer slowed down his movement, then produced a black-and-white photograph. A simple group shot of students on a campus. " Bogaziçi University April 1999," he commented. "The only photo that exists of you. Of the old you. I mean…"

Suddenly a lighter appeared in his hand. The flame burst into the darkness, then bit slowly into the glossy paper, giving off a strong chemical smell.

"Few people can claim to have known you after that period, Sema. Especially as you constantly changed your name, your appearance, your country…"

He was still holding the crackling picture. The sparkling pink flames flashed over his face. She thought she was having one of her hallucinations. It was maybe the start of an attack… But she was wrong. The killer's face was simply flickering in the fire.

"A complete mystery" he went on. "In some ways, that's what cost three women their lives," he stared at the blaze in his fingers. "They writhed in agony. For a long time. A very long time…"

He finally dropped the photo, which fell into a puddle of water.

"I should have guessed you'd had surgery. It was a logical step for you. The final metamorphosis…" He stared down at the still-steaming pool. "We're the best in our different fields, Sema. What do you have to offer?"

She sensed that he did not see her as an enemy, but as a rival. Even better, as his double. This pursuit had become far more than a mere contract. It was a personal challenge. A journey through the looking glass.

On an impulse, she provoked him. "We're just tools, toys in the babas' hands."

Azer frowned. His face grew taut. "No, just the opposite," he murmured. "I use them to serve our cause. Their money…"

"We're their slaves."

Irritation crossed his face. Then he suddenly yelled, "What do you want?" He threw his chocolates to the ground. "What do you have to offer?"

"To you? Nothing. I want to talk to God in person."