‘That theory’s rejected, for the moment.’ The Chief looked piqued. ‘Leave everything in its present state. We’ll watch your house from tomorrow morning onwards, and we’ll tail the “plumbers” when they come to read the meters.’
After a few practical details of how the work would be set in motion, everyone left. Daquin remained alone with his chief.
‘If it is one of our services, which I don’t exclude, I could quite well see they might have connections with the Marseilles trail and its American end, from whence the hyper-sophisticated materiél. We can determine that very quickly. One way or another, they’ll know that we know, and no one will come to read the meters. If they’re traffickers, there’s a bit more of a chance they’ll fall into our trap.’
*
Under the camera’s eye, Daquin was in bed, all alone under the orange duvet. Longing to savour the acid taste of Soleiman’s skin once more, telling himself: don’t forget — it’s impossible to fall in love. What a shame.
15
7a.m. Sentier Metro station
A small group of militants, a mix of Turks and French were standing around Soleiman, just as they had a fortnight ago. Coffee and croissants. Tense and tired. No one had slept. Since the general assembly had ended, they’d been covering every part of the Sentier to explain why the legalization office opened by the government had to be boycotted, this Monday, 17 March. But wasn’t it too much to ask those who might have benefited from this measure to let such an opportunity pass them by?
Soleiman was risking everything in this venture. If the boycott went through, he’d establish his leadership in the Sentier once and for all, and keep a chance of satisfying Daquin’s demands. If the boycott didn’t go through, he’d be wiped out and Daquin could continue to play with him as he pleased. But he sensed that the idea had had a response in the Sentier. Ya hip Ya hop. Everyone or no one. By about 2 a.m. everyone who was a regular at the Café Gymnase was already in the know. That was a good sign. If the boycott hadn’t met with an intense response, the order wouldn’t have spread like that.
Ever since Friday night, when he couldn’t go back to Daquin’s any more, Soleiman hadn’t been able to sleep. He lived to the rhythm of the committee, and the cafés in the boulevard, snatched a few moments’ sleep on a table, in a corner, and swallowed the pills that his friends gave him. Everyone in the Sentier used them to keep going during the Fashion Shows when they’re sometimes working at the sewing-machine for more than twenty-four hours at a stretch. They were good because they also stopped you feeling hungry and so reduced anxiety.
8 a.m. Passage du Désir
First ‘interview’ with a politician: a Breton deputy called Caron, from the Catholic right, a member of the club practically from the start. He has a different patter from the businessmen. He’s agreed on an informal interview with the police out of a sense of public duty. But can’t you see it can only be a crude conspiracy, with the end goal of compromising the people’s representatives, and, beyond that, democracy as a whole? You’ve no proof. There’s no trace of any payment by cheque or any means of identifying the member. I believe, then, in my duty, to protect the institution to which I belong. I believe in using parliamentary immunity and what’s more I don’t intend to respond to any notification to attend further interviews.
A small office meeting with Thomas, Santoni and their colleagues from Vice. There was still an ‘interview’ to do that afternoon with Paternaud, a radical deputy from the south-west, but ‘I’m ready to bet that he’s going to come out with exactly the same old patter. It smacks of something learned by heart. It’s time to change tack. One can conjecture that certain clients regularly use Thai children and that the murder’s committed by one of them. Let’s make a photofile of all the members, and go and show it to the Thai girls in Munich and Zurich and see what that produces. With a bit of luck we’ll find five or six regular customers and we can then turn the pressure on them.’
8.30 a.m. Rue de la Procession
Dirty, grey weather, A fine drizzle. A day in mourning at the start of a luminous spring. A bad sign? The group took up their positions on the pavement in front of the Immigration Offices, unrolled a banner, Ya hip Ya hop, and waited, soaked through, ill at ease. The offices opened at nine a.m. At a quarter to nine, some policemen arrived and pushed the little group and their banners back on to the pavement opposite. No resistance. At nine, the office doors opened. Nobody, nobody! It was hardly credible. At ten, a Turk came up rue de la Procession, on the Immigration Offices’ side. When he noticed the banner, he crossed over to Soleiman, who explained to him why they had to boycott. The man approved, apologized for coming: he hadn’t known, he hadn’t been in the Sentier yesterday. He greeted everyone and set off for the Metro. On the pavement, there was an explosion of joy. The French kissed one another, a Turk had tears in his eyes. It didn’t matter that it was raining any more.
During the whole course of the day, only five Turks would come through rue de la Procession. Not a single one would go into the legalization office. The minister had to negotiate, the minister would negotiate. We would return tomorrow.
10 a.m. Passage du Désir
A telephone call to Customs.
‘So, Sobesky and Romania? Have you been able to find anything for me, since last Friday?’
‘Yes, it’s about some raincoats manufactured in Romania. A request for transit for 500,000 articles, to be loaded at Le Havre, to be shipped to New York to the Blue and Stripes Co. manager: John D. Baker. Scheduled for the end of March. Exact date to be confirmed later. And, as an addendum, the importation of 20,000 raincoats by Francimper, a new trademark created for the occasion by Sobesky. You must excuse us, the file had escaped our notice last week. It had been filed with the transit applications … And then we were looking for Bulgaria.’
‘Nothing lost. When will you have the exact date?’
‘We should have it any day now.’
‘You’ll let me know immediately. And have you anything else in this file?’
‘Transport insured by Euroriencar Company, registered in Munich, branch at Gennevilliers.’
10 a.m. Avenue Jean-Jaurès
Romero was lying on his bed. He was leafing through a strip cartoon book without reading it, to pass the time, waiting for a reasonable moment to phone his distant cousin at the Turkish embassy. A glass of whisky to give himself courage and then, time to make a move! The phone was ringing.
‘Hallo.’
He recognized the voice.
‘Bonjour, Yildiz.’ Romero spoke into the phone.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear you, Romeo. I thought you’d never call me.’
Her voice was serious, and the accent could pass for charming, but the lady had the nasty habit of calling him ‘Romeo’.
‘Are you alone in your office?’
‘At this moment I am.’ With a laugh. ‘Why? Want to join me here?’
‘Don’t laugh at me, Yildiz. Do you know Turgut Sener?’
‘Yes, very well. He’s the Social Affairs attaché at the embassy. And we work in the same place, in the annex at boulevard Malesherbes. Would you like me to introduce you?’
‘No, not really, I’ve come across him in the course of my work.’ A moment’s silence. ‘It might be embarrassing if he knew I’ve been asking questions about him.’ Romero felt bogged down. ‘Yildiz, would you like it if we had dinner together? It would be much easier to talk about all this in a normal voice.’
‘Yes. I’d be delighted.’
‘What about this evening, at eight-thirty at the Hippopotamus in boulevard des Italiens?’
‘I’ll be there, Romeo.’
Romero hung up, very ill at ease.