‘Yes.’
‘And now, something to please you.’ His hand begins to press more insistently. ‘The boss of the network may well be an American, a CIA man.’
‘Yes, I’d really enjoy that. You’ll have him?’
‘I hope so. Sol, what’re your friends saying about the murder of Celik Osman?’
‘It’s Agça who killed him.’
‘I thought so, Do’you have any proof?’
‘No.’
‘And why did he kill him?’
‘I really don’t know.’ Soleiman hesitates. ‘Celik Osman had nothing to do with the traffickers. In Turkey, he’d already fallen foul of the Grey Wolves, who’d set fire to his workplace because he’d given money to left-wing organizations. Here, he was a good employer. He paid his workers properly and always helped out any of our people who needed it.’
Daquin took up a piece of paper from the floor beside the bed.
‘What does it say on this poster?’
‘So it’s you, you’re the cop who thought of taking away this tract? That’s all they talk about at the Gymnase. I didn’t recognize you from the description the bar owner gave me.’
‘What does it say on it?’
‘“Turks must not collaborate with the French police. Celik Osman collaborated. He’s dead. The same thing will happen to any Turk who approaches the French police.” And it’s signed by the Grey Wolves.’
‘Was he a grass?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Soleiman says this with shocked conviction. Daquin laughs.
‘You are of course well placed to know that no one can be sure of anything as regards that particular area.’
Soleiman, in a toneless voice: ‘Daquin, one day I’ll kill you.’
For a long moment, Daquin looks at Soleiman, still lying on his stomach. His brown buttocks, surprisingly round for this tall slender body. You have, he thought, the most beautiful pair of buttocks I’ve ever seen, all categories included.
17
7a.m. Villa des Artistes
Breakfast over, Daquin stretched out on the sofa with his feet up and the sound of Europe 1 in the background. Two hours’ thinking time in front of him. Soleiman was still moving about in the house before leaving but Daquin no longer saw nor heard him.
Kashguri. An interview … Too soon for formal questioning. Was it a fight already? No, just a matter of getting acquainted. I’ve too little information yet to challenge him.
I’ve got five people: Sobesky, VL, Kashguri, Anna Beric and Baker. They’re all in the race. I don’t know in what order. And I don’t even know what their relationships are to each other. Sobesky knows VL, Anna Beric and Baker. But what about Kashguri? Anna Beric knows Sobesky and Kashguri. But what about Baker? VL knows Sobesky, Baker, Kashguri (very probably), but what about Anna Beric? Is there a link between Kashguri and Baker?
Daquin moved slightly. He realized that Soleiman had left, he drank a cup of coffee and returned to his thoughts.
Of all the people involved, Kashguri is the most difficult to figure out. He holds an important post at the Bank of Cyprus and the East which finances Kutluer’s enterprises and therefore the network, more or less directly. But it’s impossible to know if he’s personally implicated. And the subject’s too dangerous for me to approach it just now. I’m sure he’s a member of the Club Simon. Just a few points on which I can hope to go further: does he know VL, and was it through him that she learnt to smoke heroin? Did he have sex with young Thai girls and what was he doing on the evening of 29 February? Lastly, what was his relationship with Anna Beric twenty years ago and does he still see her nowadays? I’ll keep this last question safely in reserve. I don’t know how to handle it.
And what about Meillant? No reason to leave him out. I can’t see him as a gang leader, but why not? He’s very involved with Sobesky and Anna Beric.
I might as well admit it, I’m completely in the dark. Who does what in this business? One thing’s certain, we’ve entered a new phase, and this is how I see it: the network bosses, whoever they are, know we’re getting close to them. Most likely they’ve found out through VL, while Baker and Sobesky are in it too, one way or another. We put the shops in Faubourg-Saint-Martin under surveillance. VL disappears, they’ve been trying to set a trap for me since Friday. And on Tuesday Celik was shot. The reason’s obvious: they want to scare the Turks and stop them from talking to us. The way I see it, Celik was a snout. But who for? And who knows? That doesn’t seem to be public knowledge. Must see Meillant. And in the end this murder’s good news in its way. It means they’re not after Sol. Not yet.
Another piece of good news, the delivery of the Romanian raincoats. If I set my mind to it I see that they’re coming through Bulgaria, by means of Euroriencar, the Bank of Cyprus and the East. And finally there’s Baker and the CIA. More or less all the strands that Lespinois mentioned to us. And when they get here there’s Sobesky, one of my prime suspects. That’s a lot for a harmless delivery of raincoats. I’ve every right to think it’s not harmless and that it’s either a delivery of drugs or else they’re setting up an infrastructure that can be used regularly afterwards. My job is to stop everything involved with this delivery and take a gamble that the henchmen will deliver the leaders into my hands. All I’ve got to do now is convince the chief.
Nine o’clock signal on Europe 1. Time to get dressed and go.
9.30a.m. Passage du Désir
Just time to telephone Istanbul before Kashguri arrives. Kutluer’s well known at the French consulate. He’s a rich businessman and everyone’s aware of his links with the Turkish mafia, which doesn’t prevent him from being received into the highest society, including, it must be said, the consulate.
He spoke to the wife of the director of the French Institute for Anatolian studies.
‘Madame, I’m really sorry to bother you. I’m Superintendent Daquin of the Paris Drugs Squad, I’m telephoning you on the advice of Monsieur Dumas, an attaché at the French consulate.’
‘What can I do for you?’
It was a very young voice, full of smiles, with a faint Slav accent. Daquin imagined her a chubby blonde.
‘Monsieur Dumas tells me you know John Erwin very well.’
‘That depends on what you call well. I go to dinner parties at his house quite often, along with fifty or so other people.’
‘That’s precisely what I’m interested in. Would you be able to supply me with a list of his guests?’
‘I’d do it for you gladly, but I don’t know the names of all the people.’
‘Couldn’t you possibly ask him for his lists? Pretend you’re preparing a reception for the French Institute?’
She hesitated for a moment.
‘Yes, I could. Certainly.’
‘I’m only interested in the last year.’
‘Very well, I’ll try.’
As he hung up Daquin dreamt about making love to a little curvaceous blonde, all smiles. That would make a change for him.
*
Kashguri arrived dead on 10 o’clock. Tall, same height as Daquin, slim, black hair, black eyes, light complexion, smooth face with very regular features. A very good-looking man, of his type. Not my type, more Lenglet’s. A classic suit, cut in the English style, blue-grey. A tie in darker grey, a very pale blue shirt. He sat down in the armchair Daquin had put ready for him. Placed his arms on the armrests. Hands clasped in front of him, well-manicured hands, long-fingered and muscular, giving an impression of brittle strength.
‘Thank you for coming, Monsieur Kashguri. I wanted to meet you to talk about a murder committed at the Club Simon on 29 February. You’re a member, we’re seeing all the members.’
Kashguri slowly opened and closed his hands, looking at Daquin. He leant forward slightly.
‘Superintendent, I’ve no intention of playing cat and mouse with you.’ Not the slightest trace of an accent. Perfect French. ‘I play an important part in Franco-Iranian relationships, which at the present time are particularly complex, as you know …’