‘Steiger? Daquin here … I’ve a real favour to ask you. Do you know a man called Baker? He’s currently directing a big ready-to-wear operation in New York and has quite a lot of business dealings in foreign parts.’
Silence from the other side of the Atlantic. Then Steiger said: ‘Daquin. I’m not going to ask you why you’re interested in him, but you mustn’t mention this conversation to anyone.’
‘Understood.’
‘He’s seen as an upright citizen, above suspicion. He’s old CIA. And what’s more he’s consulted regularly by this section and others.’
‘What d’you mean by “He’s seen as”?’
‘I’m not meaning anything in particular.’
‘One last question: when did he leave the CIA, and what were his last posts?’
‘I don’t know. Can I phone you back and tell you this evening? Well, for you it’ll be in the night.’
‘I’d rather you sent me a telex at the Drugs Squad.’
‘I’ll be in France in two or three months’ time. I’ll drop in to see you.’
‘I’ll give you the address of my present office.’
‘Passage du Désir. Wow! An address like that sets you dreaming …’
2 p.m.Somewhere in Paris
First general assembly of all the Turkish members from the Sentier. Order of the day: what was to be done about the Ministry’s decision. After ten days of negotiation, they’d taken the initiative of opening an office for legalizing residence and work permits, using critieria which didn’t take the committee’s proposals into account. Everyone knew the discussions were going to be stormy. The government’s proposed legalization programme would, at best, only cover ten to twenty per cent of Turkish workers. So in order to discuss this calmly, away from the indiscreet ears of Police Security, a confederation of trade unionists had hired a quiet, well managed assembly room with seating arrangements for 250, equipped with armchairs with writing flaps. And always free on a Sunday.
The hall filled rapidly: 500 people, all men with moustaches, arrived. The atmosphere was overheated. Bedlam. You had to shout to make yourself heard. And soon you could hardly see anything any more for the thick cigarette smoke. Everywhere were NOSMOKING notices and burn marks of stubbed-out cigarette ends on the carpet and seats. In the polished stone entrance hall was a coffee machine; dirty paper cups overflowed from the rubbish bins spilling into the hall and assembly room.
Soleiman was on the platform, with three Frenchmen supporting the committee and participating in the negotiations, along with a Turkish student who’d agreed to come and translate for the French. Soleiman opened the general assembly by asking members to confirm his appointment as Secretary General. Unanimity, public acclaim. A surge of intense happiness. That I, in my lifetime, should have known this, at least once, he thought. He began by recalling the positions the committee defended during the negotiations: that papers were to be provided for all Turks who had work. The logical conclusion was therefore to reject the government’s ‘legalization’. Enthusiastic shouts of support. The student faithfully translated.
And, now, what do we do? The general assembly exploded into a jumble of vehement, confused proposals.
Start another strike? No agreement, we’d lose money and the government doesn’t give a damn.
A demo? We’ve already had several, which weren’t very effective, we must find another way.
The student was still translating.
A bomb at the ministry? Not very interesting, we’d be unleashing police operations and losing public sympathy. The student was still translating.
At that moment, a moustachioed man stood up and made a long proposal. Silence was gradually established. Around him, one, two, three, then ten people stood up. There was a thunder of applause. Soleiman was as white as a sheet. The student refused purely and simply to translate. The French were getting anxious. Soleiman suggested the meeting be adjourned and left to discuss things with several friends. The French managed to have what had just been said translated: that the committee should write a memorandum of their position in a letter to the Press, then a Turkish volunteer should jump from the first storey of the Eiffel Tower every two hours. Beginning tomorrow, Monday, at midday and continuing until the government gives in … The boys who had stood up were volunteering to commit suicide. At this point there was straightforward panic among the French, who were convinced that the Turks were truly capable of doing it.
Soleiman returned, the general assembly continued. He had another proposaclass="underline" tomorrow morning, let’s boycott the legalization office set up by the ministry. No Turks will turn up, and none are going to as long as the committee’s positions don’t form the basis of the legalization. And Soleiman defended his position in an impassioned tone: it was less heroic, perhaps, but more realistic, and would involve everyone’s participation. The working class exists because of its collective solidarity, not because of its martyrs. The student translated everything he could. The general assembly was swung over, Soleiman was given an ovation and the decision taken. He was sweating, his hands moist. A Frenchman shivered nervously.
And now the boycott had to be organized. Small groups were formed and these would immediately spread out to cover all the bistros in the Sentier. A meeting was set up for fifty or so militants, including the French, who would gather tomorrow morning in front of the legalization office and use dissuasion tactics, should the need be felt.
All over. It was 6 p.m. The general assembly broke up slowly, as though with regret. Soleiman and the French were the last to leave the room. A vague glance at the battlefield, littered with papers, rubbish, paper cups, cigarette ends overflowing everywhere. It reeked of stale tobacco. Their anxiety created solidarity: if the boycott were to fail (and was it possible for a boycott of this sort to succeed?), all that would be left for them to do would be to go and pick up the corpses on the Champs-de-Mars, watched by gawping tourists. At least the first one, before the cops locked everyone up.
7p.m. Drugs Squad
In the office, the atmosphere was smoky and tense. Quite a few people: the chief, his sidekick, one of the men in charge of the Organized Crime Squad, a member from the office of the Police Director, a technician from Drugs, a specialist in electronics. Daquin arrived last. He was at first surprised, then amused.
The technician gave a summary of the ‘inventory of fixtures’. On the ground floor were three microphones hidden in a cupboard and connected to a recording machine buried outside, a device which was practically impossible to detect unless one were looking for it. On the first floor, a camera had been hidden in the bedroom, behind one of the spotlight fittings in the ceiling. It was directed on to the bed, of which it had complete coverage. The work of a pro, and very sophisticated materials: extra-flat, silent, the camera turned itself on to infra-red, that’s to say, whenever there was human activity in its field of vision. The technician was silent.
‘What have you done with the matériel?’
‘We’ve left it all in working order and removed any trace of our being there.’
‘What services do we have who have use of this matériel?’
‘Well, they all have microphones. As for the camera, no one to my knowledge has it. And in my case it’s the first time I’ve seen that type of apparatus.’
‘Daquin, what’s your view?’
‘I have a possible theory: traffickers know that I’m on their trail. They have to react. By having me followed, installing the microphones, they’re trying to get information on the state of the investigation. The camera’s something else. They must have heard it said I like boys,’ a glance around the room, ‘and they probably imagine they can make me squeal, or else put pressure elsewhere to get me off the case. There’s another theory, apparently: one of our services wants to be in the know about the investigation into the Turkish network. Or practise blackmail for its own ends.’