The Empire Of The Wolves

23

For the past two days, they had been roaming around the Turkish quarter. Paul Nerteaux could not understand Schiffer's strategy. On Sunday evening, they should have gone straight to see this Marek Cesiuz, alias Marius, the head of the Iskele, the main network of illegal Turkish immigrants. They should have shaken up this slave trader and gotten him to give them his files on the three victims.

Instead of that, the Cipher had decided to regain contact with "his" neighborhood, to find his feet again, as he put it. So for two days now, he had been sniffing around, checking and observing his old bailiwick, but without questioning anyone. Only the driving rain had allowed them to remain invisible in their car-to see without being seen.

Paul was champing at the bit, but he did have to admit that in forty-eight hours he had learned more about Little Turkey than he had during the three months of his inquiries.

Jean-Louis Schiffer had started by introducing him to the adjacent diasporas. They had gone to Passage Brady, off Boulevard de Strasbourg, the center of the Indian world. Beneath a long glass roof, tiny brightly colored shops and dark restaurants hung with blinds stretched into the distance. Waiters were calling out to the passersby, while women in saris let their navels do the talking among the heavy fragrances of spices. In this rainy weather, with waves of humidity expanding and enlivening each odor, they could have been in a market in Bombay during the monsoon.

Schiffer had showed him the addresses that were used as meeting points for the Hindis, Bengalis and Pakistanis. He had pointed out the heads of each confession: Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Sikh and Buddhist… Within a few doorways, he had summarized this concentrated exoticism, which, he said, wanted nothing better than to dissolve.

"In a few years' time," he said with a grin, "the traffic cops around here will all be Sikhs."

Then they had taken up position on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin opposite the Chinese businesses: groceries that looked like caverns, soaked with the smell of garlic and ginger; restaurants with drawn curtains that opened like velvet cases; the glistening windows and chrome counters of delicatessens, covered with salads and dumplings. At a distance, Schiffer had introduced him to the main community leaders, shopkeepers whose stores provided a mere five percent of their total turnover.

"Never trust these buggers," he said, grimacing. "Not a single one of them's straight. Their heads are like their food. Full of things diced to pieces. Stuffed full of monosodium glutamate so as to put you to sleep."

Later, they went back to Boulevard de Strasbourg, where West Indian and African hairdressers shared the pavement with cosmetics wholesalers and joke shops. Under the copings, groups of blacks sheltered from the rain, presenting a perfect ethnic kaleidoscope of all those who frequented the boulevard: Baoulés, Mbochis and Betés from the Ivory Coast, Laris from Congo. Bas-Congos and Baloubas from the former Zaire, Bamelekes and Ewondos from Cameroon…

Paul was intrigued by these ever-present, yet perfectly idle Africans. He knew that most of them were drug dealers or con men, but this did not stop him feeling a certain warmth toward them. Their lightness of mood, their humor and that tropical life, which they managed to transmit even to the asphalt thrilled him. Above all, he found the women fascinating. Their smooth, dark stares seemed to have some hidden relationship with their lustrous hair, which had just been uncurled at Afro 2000 or Royal Coiffure. Fairies of burned wood, masks of satin with large dark eyes…

Schiffer gave him a more realistic, and detailed, description: "The Cameroonians are kings of forgery, from banknotes to credit cards. The Congolese specialize in threads: stolen clothes, fake labels and so on. The Ivorians are nicknamed ' SOS Africa.' Their specialty is false charities. They're always hitting you up for the starving Ethiopians or orphans of Angola. A lovely example of solidarity. But the most dangerous of all are the Zairians. Their empire is built on drugs. They reign over the entire neighborhood. The blacks are the worst of all," he concluded. "Pure parasites. Their only aim in life is to suck our blood."

Paul did not respond to any of these racist remarks. He had decided to remain oblivious to anything that did not directly concern their investigations. All he wanted was results. Nothing else mattered. Meanwhile, he was slowly progressing on other fronts. He had brought in two officers from the SARIJ, named Naubrel and Matkowska, so that they could follow up the lead about pressure tanks. The two lieutenants had already visited three hospitals, with negative results. They had now extended their inquiries to the contractors who work in the depths of Paris, under pressure so as to prevent the water table from leaking into their sites. Every evening, the workers used a decompression chamber. Darkness, underground… the lead sounded good to Paul. He was expecting a report later on that day.

He had also asked a young recruit in the Brigade Criminelle to collect other guidebooks and archaeological catalogues dealing with Turkey. The officer had made his first delivery the previous evening to Paul's apartment on Rue du Chemin Vert, in the eleventh arrondissement. A stack that he had not had time to go through yet but that would soon be accompanying him in his insomnia.

On the second day, they entered the true Turkish area. This neighborhood was bordered to the south by Boulevards Bonne-Nouvelle and Saint-Denis, to the west by Rue du Faubourg-Poissonière and, to the east by Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin. To the north, the intersection of Rue La Fayette and Boulevard Magenta capped the district. Its spinal cord ran along Boulevard de Strasbourg, which went up toward the;are de l'Est. Its nerves spread out to each side: Rue des Petites-Ecuries, Rue du Chateau d'Eau… Its heartbeat in the depths of Strasbourg Saint-Denis metro station, irrigating this fragment of the East.

From an architectural point of view, the neighborhood was unexceptional: some of its old gray buildings had been renovated, but many more were decrepit, as though they had lived a thousand lives. They all had the same layout: the ground and first floors were occupied by businesses; the second and third by sweatshops; then the upper stories below the roof contained living accommodations-overcrowded apartments cut into two, or three, or four, covering the surface like little paper squares.

In the streets, there was an atmosphere of impermanence, of passing through. Several of the businesses seemed devoted to movement, to the nomadic life, a precarious existence, always on the lookout. There were kiosks selling sandwiches that you could snack on while walking down the street; there were travel agents, to prepare departures and arrivals; there were currency exchangers, to give out euros; there were photocopy stores to duplicate identity papers… not to mention the numerous real estate agents and signs marked FOR SALE…

In all of these details, Paul read the power of a permanent exodus, a human flood from a distant source, pouring endlessly and messily along the streets. But this quarter also had another purpose: the making of clothes. The Turks did not control this trade, which was run by the Jewish community of Sentier, but since the great migrations of the 1950s they had established themselves as a vital link in the chain. They supplied the wholesalers, thanks to their hundreds of workshops and home workers. Thousands of hands working millions of hours that could almost compete with the Chinese. In any case, the Turks had the benefit of seniority and a slightly more legal social standing.

The two policemen had plunged into these crowded, agitated, earsplitting streets. Among the deliverymen, the open trucks, the bags and trolleys, the clothes passed from hand to hand. The Cipher acted as a guide once more. He knew their names, their owners and their specialties. He spoke of the Turks who had been his informers, the messengers he had had in his grip for various reasons, the restaurant owners who owed him favors. The list seemed endless. At the beginning, Paul had tried to take notes, but he had soon given up. He let himself be carried onward by Schiffer's explanations while observing the agitation all around them, picking up its cries, blaring horns, smell of pollution-everything that made the quarter what it was.

Finally, at noon on Tuesday, they crossed the final frontier and reached the hub. The compact block known as Little Turkey, covering Rue des Petites-Ecuries, the courtyard and passageway of the same name, Rue d'Enghien, Rue de l'Echiquier and Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. Only a few acres, but here all the buildings were inhabited by Turks from the basement to the attic.

This time, Schiffer deciphered the scene for him, providing the access codes to this unique village. He revealed the purpose behind each doorway, each building, each window. This yard led to a goods depot that was in fact a mosque; that unfurnished room at the far end of a patio was the headquarters of an extreme left-wing group… Schiffer lit all the lanterns for Paul, clearing up mysteries that had been baffling him for weeks-such as why there were always two fair-haired men dressed in black in the Cour des Petites-Ecuries.

"They're Lazes," the Cipher explained. "From the Black Sea, in northeastern Turkey. They're fighters, warriors. Mustafa Kemel himself employed them as bodyguards. Their legend goes back a long way. In Greek mythology, they were the guardians of the Golden Fleece in Colchis."

Or the shadowy bar on Rue des Petites-Ecuries, which contained a photo of a large man with a mustache.

"It's the headquarters of the Kurds. And the picture's of Apo, or 'uncle' Abdullah Ocalan, the head of the PKK (Partiya Karkeran Kurdistan), or Kurdistan Workers' Party who's now in prison."

The Cipher then entered into a grandiose speech that was almost a national anthem.

"The greatest nation without a state. Twenty-five million of them in all, twelve million in Turkey. Like the Turks, they're Muslims. Like the Turks, they wear mustaches. Like the Turks, they work in sweatshops. The only problem is that they're not Turks, and nothing and nobody will ever make them change."

Schiffer then introduced him to the Alevis, who met on Rue d'Enghien.

"They're called 'redheads.' They're Shiite Muslims who practice a secret rite. And they're hard nuts, take my word for it… rebels, often leftists. And also an extremely close community based on initiation and friendship. They choose an 'oath brother' or 'initiate companion' and advance together toward God. They're a real force of resistance against traditional Islam."

When Schiffer spoke like that, he seemed to have a hidden respect for these peoples he at the same time constantly derided. In reality, he had a love-hate relationship with the Turkish world. Paul even remembered a rumor according to which Schiffer had almost married a woman from Anatolia. What had happened? How had the story ended? It was generally when he was beginning to imagine a superb romance between Schiffer and the East that his partner came out with some terrible racist outburst.

The two men were now sitting in their unmarked car, an ancient Golf that police headquarters had agreed to lend Paul at the outset of his inquiries. They were parked at the corner of Rue des Petites-Ecuries and Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, just in front of the Château d'Eau bar.

Night was falling and mingling with the rain to melt the scene into colorless, muddy sludge. Paul looked at his watch. It was 8:30.

"What the hell are we doing here, Schiffer? We should have gone for Marius today and-"

"Patience. The concert's about to start."

"What concert?"

Schiffer was fidgeting on his seat, flattening down the creases in his Barbour.

"I've already told you-Marius has a concert hall on Boulevard de Strasbourg. It's an old porn cinema. There's a show on this evening. Ills bodyguards will be taking care of the door." He winked. "It's an ideal time to pay him a call." He pointed at the street in front of them. "Start up and turn down Rue du Château d'Eau."

Paul did so moodily. Mentally, he had given the Cipher just one chance. If he failed with Marius, then he would take him straight back to the home in Longéres. But he was also impatient to see this monster at work.

"Park on the other side of Boulevard de Strasbourg," Schiffer ordered. "If we have problems, we can always leave via an emergency exit I know"

Paul drove across the street, up another block, then parked at the corner of Rue Bouchardon. "There won't be any problems, Schiffer."

"Give me the photos."

He hesitated, then passed him the envelope containing the photos of the corpses. Schiffer smiled, then opened the car door. "Just give me a free hand, and everything will be fine."

Paul then got out as well, thinking, One chance, you old bugger. One and no more.

24

In the concert hall, the beat was so strong that it obscured any other sensation. The shock wave hit you in the belly, stripping bare your nerves, then dived into your heels before surging back up your vertebrae, making them vibrate like the strips of a vibraphone.

Paul instinctively sank his head into his shoulders and bent double, as though dodging blows being rained on his stomach, chest and both sides of his head, where his eardrums were ablaze. He blinked to get his bearings in the smoky atmosphere while projectors on the stage were turning.

Finally, he made out the décor: carved, gilded balustrades, stucco columns, fake crystal chandeliers, heavy crimson curtains… Schiffer had mentioned a former cinema, but it instead reminded him of the ancient kitsch of an old cabaret. A kind of music hall for operettas with frilly shirts, in which ghosts wearing brilliantine would have refused to yield their places to furious neometal groups.

On the stage, the musicians were writhing about, chanting their endless fuckin' and killin'. Bare-chested, gleaming with sweat and fever, they were wielding their guitars, mikes and drums as if they were assault rifles, raising the first rows in violent waves.

Paul left the bar and went down onto the floor. Diving in among the crowd, he felt suddenly nostalgic for the concerts of his youth: pogoing furiously jumping like a spring to the heady riffs of the Clash: the four chords learned on his secondhand guitar, which he ended up selling when its strings started to remind him too much of the bloody zigzags in his father's car seat.

He realized that he had lost sight of Schiffer. He turned around, staring at the spectators who had remained at the top of the steps, by the bar. They were standing nonchalantly glass in hand, deigning to respond to the frenzy on the stage by a mere slight swing of their hips. Paul looked among their shadowy faces, ringed with colored beams. No Schiffer.

Suddenly, a voice burst into his ear: "Wanna score?"

Paul turned around to see a livid face, gleaming beneath its cap. "What?”

“I've got some great Black Bombays."

"You've got what?"

The man leaned over, hooking a hand over Paul's shoulder. "Black Bombays, Dutch ones. Where've you been hiding?"

Paul pushed him away and produced his tricolor card.

"That's where. Now piss off before I run you in."

The man vanished like a blown-out flame. Paul stared for a moment at his cardholder, with the stamp of the police, and measured the gulf benveen the concerts of back then and his present profile: an intransigent police officer, upholding law and order, implacably shaking up the dregs of society. Could he have imagined that twenty years back?

Someone tapped him on the back.

"Are you nuts?" Schiffer yelled. "Put that thing away!"

Paul was running with sweat. He tried to swallow but could not. Everything trembled around him and the sparkling lights dislocated the faces, crumpling them up like sheets of aluminum foil.

The Cipher tapped him again, more amicably this time, on the arm. "Come on. Marius is here. We'll catch him in his lair."

They headed off between the crush of shifting, waving bodies: a frenetic sea of shoulders and hips writhing in time, brutally, instinctively, with the rhythms being spat from the stage. By elbowing their way through, the two cops managed to reach the front.

Schiffer then turned right, below the acute wafflings of the guitars that were surging from the loudspeakers. Paul had a hard time keeping up with him. He noticed that Schiffer was talking with a bouncer while the amplifier hummed furiously. The man nodded and opened a concealed door. Paul just had time to slip in through the gap. It led into a narrow, corridor. Posters gleamed on the walls. On most of them, the Turkish crescent and the Communist hammer were joined into a political symbol.

Schiffer explained, "Marius is head of an extreme left-wing group on Rue Jarry. It was his pals who set fire to the Turkish prisons last year."

Paul vaguely remembered hearing about those riots, but he asked no questions. This was no time for geopolitics. The two men set off. The music continued to echo dully in their backs.

Without stopping, Schiffer sneered, "Putting on concerts was a smart move. A real captive market."

"Sorry?"

"Marius also has a hand in dealing. Ecstasy. Uppers. Anything with speed in it."

Paul blinked.

"Or LSD. With these concerts, he can build up his own clientele. He's a winner every way"

It occurred to Paul to ask, "Do you know what Black Bombays are?”

“They're all the rage these days. It's Ecstasy cut with heroin."

How come a fifty-nine-year-old man, just out of a retirement home, knew the latest E trends? Another mystery.

"It's ideal when coming down," he went on. "After the excitement of speed, the heroin is calming. It's an easy passage from saucer eyes to pinhead pupils."

"Pinhead pupils?"

"Of course heroin puts you to sleep. A junkie's always dozing off" He stopped. "I don't get it. You've never worked on a drug bust before?"

"I spent four years in the drug squad. But that doesn't make me a druggie."

The Cipher gave him his finest smile. "How can you fight something you've never experienced? How can you understand the enemy if you don't know his strengths? You have to know what kids are looking for in that shit. And the strength of drugs is that they're good. Jesus, if you don't know that, there's no point even trying to bust them."

Paul recalled his initial idea: Jean-Louis Schiffer, father of all cops, half hero, half demon, the best and the worst brought together in one man. He swallowed his anger. His partner had set off again. A last bend, then two giants dressed in leather coats appeared on either side of a black-painted door.

The cop with the crew cut produced his card. Paul shivered. Where had this relic come from? This detail seemed to confirm their current situation. It was now the Cipher who was calling the shots. To make matters even worse, he started speaking in Turkish.

The bodyguard hesitated, then raised his hand to knock at the door. Schiffer stopped rapidly and opened the handle himself. On going in, he barked at Paul over his shoulder: "Not a word from you during the questioning."

Paul wanted to answer back appropriately, but he did not have time. This interview was going to be his initiation.

25

"Salaam aleikum, Marius!"

The man slumped in his desk chair nearly toppled backward. "Schiffer? Aleikum salaam, my brother!"

Marek Cesiuz was already back in control. He stood up, grinning broadly, and walked around his iron desk. He was wearing a red-and gold football shirt, the colors of Galatasaray. His scrawny body floated in the satiny material like a banner on the terraces. It was impossible to guess how old he was. His reddish gray hair looked like still-smoldering cinders. His features were frozen into an expression of cold joy, which gave him the sinister look of an ancient child. His coppery skin accentuated his robotic face and melded into his rusty hair.

The two men embraced effusively. The windowless office, with its piles of papers, was saturated with smoke. Cigarette burns dotted the carpet. All the decorations seemed to date back to the 1970s: silvery cabinets and round lamps, tom-tom stools, lamps suspended like mobiles, conic lampshades.

In a corner, Paul noticed a printing press, a photocopier, two binding machines and a guillotine. The perfect outfit for a political militant.

Marius's hearty laughter drowned out the distant din of the music. "How long has it been?"

"At my age, you stop counting."

"We missed you, my brother. We really did."

The Turk spoke French without an accent. They embraced once more. Their playacting had reached its peak.

"And the children?" Schiffer asked in a bantering tone.

"They grow up too quickly. I don't take my eyes off them for fear of missing something!"

"And my little Ali?"

Marius aimed a punch at Schiffer's belly, which stopped well before contact. "He's the quickest of them all!"

Suddenly, he seemed to notice Paul. His eyes froze over, while his lips remained smiling. "So you're back at work?" he asked the Cipher.

"Just for a simple consultation. Let me introduce you to Captain Paul Nerteaux."

Paul hesitated, then put out his hand, but no one took it. He contemplated his empty fingers in that overbright room, full of fake smiles and the smell of cigarettes. Then, to keep up appearances, he took a look at a pile of handbills lying to his right.

"Still writing your Bolshevik stuff?" Schiffer asked.

"It's ideals that keep us alive."

The officer grabbed a sheet and translated out loud: ".. When the workers control the means of production.." He laughed. "I thought you'd grown out of this sort of crap."

"Schiffer, my friend, it's the sort of crap that will outlive us.”

“Only if someone keeps reading it."

Marius had recovered his complete smile, lips and eyes in unison. "Some tea, my friends?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a large thermos flask and filled three earthenware cups. Applause was making the walls tremble.

"Aren't you fed up with those creeps?"

Marius sat back down behind his desk, his chair against the wall. He slowly raised his cup to his mouth. "Music is the food of peace, my brother. Even this sort. In my country the kids listen to the same bands as they do here. Rock will unite the future generations. It will wipe out what's left of our differences."

Schiffer pressed down the guillotine and raised his cup. "To hard rock!"

The way Marius's form shifted oddly beneath his shirt seemed to express both amusement and weariness. "Schiffer, you didn't come all this way, and bring this kid with you, to talk about music or our old ideals."

The Cipher sat down on the edge of the desk, sized up the Turk for a moment, then removed the horrifying photos from the envelope. Their disfigured faces scattered over the first drafts of posters.

Marius drew back into his chair. "What on earth are you showing me, my brother?"

"Three women. Three bodies discovered in your precinct. Between November and now. My colleague thinks they're illegal immigrants. So I thought you might be able to tell us more." His tone had changed. It sounded as if Schiffer had stitched each syllable with barbed wire.

"That's news to me," Marius said.

Schiffer smiled knowingly. "The whole neighborhood must have been talking about little else ever since the first murder. So tell us what you know and we'll all save a lot of time."

The dealer absentmindedly picked up a packet of Karos. the local filterless cigarettes, and took one out. "My brother, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Schiffer stood back up and adopted the tone of a fairground barker: "Marek Cesiuz, emperor of falsity and lies, king of smuggling and con tricks…" He broke into a raucous laugh. Which was also a roar, then stared down darkly at him. "Talk, you piece of shit. before I lose my temper."

The Turk's face went as hard as glass. Sitting up straight in his chair, he lit his cigarette. "You've got nothing, Schiffer. No warrant, no witnesses, no clues. You've just come here to ask for advice that I can't give you. I'm sorry" He pointed at the door with a long flurry of gray smoke. "Now, you'd better leave with your friend and put an end to this misunderstanding."

Schiffer planted his heels in the scorched carpet and faced the desk. "The only misunderstanding here is you. Everything's fake in this fucking office. These stupid handbills are fake. You don't give a shit about the last of the Commies rotting in prison in your country"

"You-"

"Your passion for music is fake. A Muslim like you thinks that rock is the work of the devil. If you could burn down your own concert hail, you wouldn't hesitate for a moment."

Marius motioned to get up, but Schiffer pushed him back.

"Your cupboards are full of fake paperwork. You're no fucking workaholic. All this is run on smuggling and slavery!" He went over to the guillotine and stroked its blade. "You know as well as I do that this thing is just for cutting up your strips of acid into tabs." He opened his arms, in a theatrical gesture, and addressed the grimy ceiling: "O my brother, tell me about these women before I turn your office over and find enough to pack you off to Fleury for years!"

Marek Cesiuz kept glancing at the door.

The Cipher stood behind him and leaned over his ear. "Three women, Marius." He massaged his shoulders. "In less than four months. Tortured, disfigured, thrown onto the street. You brought them to France. Now give me their files, and we'll go."

The distant pulses of the concert filled the silence.

Then, sounding like the Turk's heart beating inside his carcass, Marek murmured, "I don't have them anymore."

"Why not?"

"I destroyed them. When the girls died, I threw away their records. No traces, no problems."

Paul was starting to get worried, but he appreciated this revelation. For the first time, the object of his inquiries had become real. The three victims had existed as women. They started to take form before his eyes. The corpses had become illegal immigrants.

Schiffer stood back in front of the desk. "Watch the door," he said to Paul, without looking back at him.

"Wh-what?"

"The door."

Before Paul had time to react, Schiffer had leapt onto Marek and crushed his face against a corner of the desk. The nose bone snapped like a nut in a cracker. The cop lifted up Marek's head in a shower of blood and pushed it against the wall. "Give me the files, you cunt."

Paul rushed over, but Schiffer shoved him away. He was about to take out his gun when the dark maw of a Manhurin.44 Magnum froze him. The Cipher had dropped the Turk and drawn at the same instant.

"Just watch the door.

Paul was horrified. Where had that gun sprung from? Marek was sliding off his chair and opening a drawer.

"Behind you!"

Schiffer swung and hit him full in the face with the barrel of his gun. Marek spun around full circle on his chair and landed amid the piles of handbills. The Cipher grabbed him by his shirt and stuck his gun under his throat.

"The files, you fucking Turk. Otherwise, I swear to you I won't leave you alive."

Marek was shaking. Blood was oozing out between his broken teeth, but his joyful expression remained in place. Schiffer put his gun away and dragged him to the guillotine.

Paul then drew and yelled. "Stop it!"

Schiffer raised the guillotine and placed the man's hand beneath it. "Give me the files, you shit heap."

"Stop or I’ll shoot!"

The Cipher did not even look up. He slowly pressed down the blade. The skin of the phalanges started to give way under the edge. Black blood was bubbling up in places.

Marek screamed, hut not as loudly as Paul: "Schiffer!"

He crouched with both hands on the grip of his gun, aiming it at the Cipher. He had to shoot. He had to.

The door opened violently behind him. He was thrown forward, rolled over and came to a stop at the foot of the iron desk, his neck and head at right angles.

The two bodyguards were drawing their guns when a spray of blood covered them. The screaming of a hyena filled the room.

Paul realized that Schiffer had finished his work. He got up onto one knee, pointing his gun at the Turks. "Pull back!"

The men, hypnotized by the scene in front of them, did not move. Trembling from head to foot, Paul raised his 9-mm up to their faces. "Pull back, fuckers!"

He shoved the barrel into their chests and managed to force them back over the threshold. He closed the door with his back and could at last take a look at the nightmare.

Marek was on his knees, sobbing, his hand still trapped in the guillotine. His fingers had not been completely severed, but the phalanges had been exposed, the flesh cut from the bone. Schiffer was still holding the handle, his face deformed by a sardonic grin.

Paul put his gun away. He had to control this madman. He was about to charge when the Turk pointed his good hand toward the silvery filing cabinets beside the photocopier.

"The keys!" Schiffer yelled.

Marek tried to take hold of the ring fixed to his belt. The Cipher grabbed it from him and presented the keys, one by one, before his eyes. With a nod, the Turk indicated the one that would open the door.

The old cop started rummaging through the files. Paul took the opportunity to release the wounded man. He gingerly raised the blade, which was sticky with red stains.

The Turk collapsed onto the floor, rolled up and groaned, "Hospital… hospital…"

Schiffer turned around, his eyes shining. He was holding a cardboard folder, tied up with a cloth strap. He flung it open to reveal the files and snapshots of the three women.

In a state of shock. Paul realized that they had won.

26

They took the emergency exit and ran to the Golf. Paul shot off at once, nearly hitting a passing car.

He kept his foot down, swerving right into Rue Lucien-Sampaix. He then suddenly realized that he was going the wrong way up a one-way street. He quickly took the next left onto Boulevard Magenta.

Reality was dancing before his eyes. Tears added to the rain on the windshield, blurring everything. He could just see the traffic lights, which were bleeding like wounds in the downpour.

He crossed one intersection without braking, then another, setting off a flurry of skidding cars and blaring horns. At the third light, he finally stopped. For a few seconds, his head spun, then he knew what he had to do.

Green.

He accelerated without releasing the clutch, stalled and swore.

He was turning the ignition key when Schiffer said, "Where are you going?"

"To the station," he panted. "I'm arresting you, you bastard."

From the far side of the square, the Gare de L'Est shone like a cruise ship. He was about to pull off when the Cipher shifted his leg over to the other side and stamped on the accelerator.

"Fucking hell…"

Schiffer grabbed the wheel and spun it to the right. They shot down Rue Sibour, a side road that ran beside Saint-Laurent Church. Still using one hand, he turned again, forcing the Golf to bounce over the separations of the cycle path and come to a halt against the pavement.

Paul took the wheel in his ribs. He hiccupped, coughed, then melted into a burning sweat. He clenched his fist and turned toward his passenger, ready to smash his jaws.

The man's pallid face dissuaded him. Jean-Louis Schiffer looked twenty years older once more. His entire profile was melting into his flabby neck. His eyes were so glassy they looked transparent. A real death's-head.

"You're a lunatic," he panted in disgust. "A fucking sicko. You can count on me to make the charge sheet look good. You're going to rot in prison, you fucking torturer!"

Without answering, Schiffer found an old map of Paris in the glove compartment and tore off a few pages to wipe the blood from his jacket. His blotchy hands were trembling. His words hissed from between his teeth: "There's no other way to deal with the fuckers."

"We're police officers."

"Marius is a shit. He manipulates whores over here by having their kids mutilated back home. An arm, a leg. It calms down the Turkish mothers."

"We represent the law" Paul was getting his breath and his poise back. His eyesight was also returning, showing him the flat black wall of the church, the gargoyles over their heads, standing like gallows, and the rain still assailing the night.

Schiffer threw away the reddened pages, opened the window and spat. “It's too late to get rid of me."

"If you think I'm scared to answer for what I've done… then you've got another thing coming. You're headed behind bars, even if I have to share your cell."

Schiffer raised a hand to switch on the roof light, then opened the folder on his lap. He removed the papers concerning the three women: they were loose laser-printed leaves, with a Polaroid photo stapled to each one. He tore off the photos and placed them on the dashboard, as if they were playing cards. He cleared his throat again and asked, "What do you see?"

Paul did not move. The light from the streetlamps was making the pictures glisten above the steering wheel. For two months, he had been looking for these faces. He had pictured them, drawn them, wiped them out again and started all over again a hundred times… Now that they were in front of him, he felt as nervous as a virgin.

Schiffer took him by the scruff of the neck and forced him to look. "What do you see?" he said huskily. Paul opened his eyes wide. Three women with gentle features, slightly stunned by the flashlight, were staring at him. Their broad faces were rimmed by red hair.

"Do you notice anything?" the Cipher insisted.

Paul hesitated. "They look alike, don't they?"

Schiffer burst out laughing and repeated, " 'They look alike'? You mean they're carbon copies!"

Paul turned toward him. He was unsure if he had understood. "And so?"

"So you were right. The killer is after a particular face. A face that he both adores and detests, which obsesses him and provokes contradictory impulses. As for his motive, anything is possible. But we now know that he's pursuing an objective."

Paul's anger turned into a feeling of victory. So his intuitions had been right: they were illegal immigrants, with identical looks. Was he also right about the ancient statues?

Schiffer continued: "These photos are a huge step forward, take my word for it. Because they also provide us with a vital piece of information. The killer knows this neighborhood like the back of his hand."

"That's nothing new."

"We figured that he's Turkish, not that he knows every sweatshop and cellar around here. Can you imagine the patience and perseverance you need to find girls who look that much alike? The bastard must have eyes everywhere."

Paul said, more calmly, "Okay. I admit that I d never have got hold of these photos without you. So I'll spare you the station. I'll just take you straight back to Longères without passing by the police."

He turned the ignition key. but Schiffer grabbed his arm. "Don't be silly, kid. You need me now more than ever."

“It's all over for you."

The Cipher picked up one of the pieces of paper and held it under the light. "We haven't just got their faces and identities. We've also got the addresses of their workshops. That's a solid lead."

Paul released the key. "Maybe their colleagues saw something?"

"Remember what forensics said. Their stomachs were empty. They were going home after work. We'll have to question women who go the same way every evening. And also the bosses of the workshops. But to do that, you need me, my boy."

Schiffer did not have to press the point. For three months, Paul had been banging his head against the same wall. He imagined himself starting his inquiries again on his own and obtaining an infinite series of zeros.

"I'll give you one day." he conceded. "We'll go around to the workshops. We'll question their colleagues, neighbors and partners, if there are any. Then you go back to the home. And I'm warning you: the slightest fuckup, and I'll kill you. This time, I won't hesitate."

His partner forced a laugh, but Paul sensed that he was scared. Fear now gripped both of them. He was about to start the car up when he paused once more-he wanted everything to be clear. ^-Why were you so violent with that Marius?"

Schiffer looked up at the gargoyles, which rose into the darkness. Devils curled around their perches, incubuses with turned-up noses, demons with bat's wings. He remained silent for a while, then murmured, "There was no other way. They've decided not to speak."

"Who do you mean by 'they'?"

"The Turks. The whole neighborhood's gone dumb. We're going to have to rip out each scrap of the truth."

Paul's voice cracked, rising up a tone. "But why are they doing that? Why don't they want to help us?"

The Cipher was still staring at those faces of stone. His pallor competed with that of the roof light.

"Don't you get it? They're protecting the killer."