8 p.m. Passage du Désir
Attali and Lavorel were playing draughts. Daquin was making himself coffee in silence.
Romero arrived. Very dirty, thought Daquin. His hair, his face, his hands and his clothes were covered in fine white dust. His shoes were completely white. He was so excited and pleased that he didn’t seem to notice. The game of draughts stopped.
‘We’ll start with Attali,’ said Daquin.
Attali explained the system for reserving and cancelling restaurant tables. So an alibi was possible but couldn’t be guaranteed. Bertrand’s little speech about the political importance of Kashguri.
‘And then the sense of unease took over and the feeling that Bertrand knew more than I did about the progress of the investigation.’
‘Was Bertrand pleased to fly to the aid of his friend?’
‘He’d have given his shirt not to have to do it.’
‘So, Kashguri’s trying to drag Bertrand into it. What’s he getting in exchange? We’ll find out Lavorel?’
‘Nothing new, but one thing’s been confirmed: the Frenchman who lent his name for the purchase of the two shops is on the Euroriencar payroll.’
Daquin seemed satisfied.
‘And you, Romero, give us some details about your scoop.’
The identification of the body and the way in which it had been dumped in the lime. Killed point-blank range by a bullet through the heart, fired from the front. Transported after the murder. For the time being, that was all.
Daquin sank back into his armchair. He was tense.
‘I want to draw your attention to two points about this murder. One: this assassination resembles the liquidation of Celik. I don’t know if I’d told you already but Celik was one of the guys who acted as a snout for Meillant, and very few people knew it. Two: very few people were aware that we’d traced Celebi and were holding a witness who would testify against him. We’re on to a big drugs case, which involves a lot of money. And a lot of money means murders, we’ve already got three, four or five, depending on how you look at them. And corruption. Corruption of politicians, perhaps, but it could happen to police officers too. Remember that.’
Point taken, deathly silence.
‘Romero, tomorrow you’ll start trailing your attaché from the embassy again, plus the telephone tapping and Paulette. Attali, go back to the VL case. At the end of the month there’s going to be a delivery of raincoats from Romania to Sobesky’s place. I’d like us to be as far ahead as possible by then.’
Silence again. Daquin stood up, put on his jacket, said good evening and left.
19
8 a.m. Avenue Jean-Jaurès
Romero was fast asleep. The telephone rang. He picked it up, grumbling. In a bad temper. Exhausting day yesterday, and he hadn’t slept all night, because of Daquin’s allusion to bent police officers. What had he meant? Impossible to say. He’d fallen into a deep sleep about 6 in the morning, barely two hours ago … What a job.
The voice belonged to Yildiz …
‘Did I wake you up, Romeo?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, I’ll be quick. Today Turgut Sener is going to collect the diplomatic bag at Roissy, as he does every month. He’ll be leaving from boulevard Malesherbes about 10, in an embassy van.’
‘When are we going to have dinner together, Yildiz? I miss you.’
She laughed.
‘Ring me back when you’re in a better mood.’
Romero got up. A nearly cold shower, a litre of coffee. The untidiness of his apartment disgusted him. A little pile of white dust under the chair where he’d left his clothes the day before. Dirty crockery all over the place. Must get organized.
A clean sweatshirt, the last but one, jeans, trainers, a leather jacket. Must join his colleagues in the Drugs Squad.
9.30 a.m. Shadowing
The two inspectors, Romero and Marinoni, were waiting in an unmarked Renault 5 fifty metres away from the annex to the Turkish Embassy in boulevard Haussmann. Marinoni was very cheerful and told one funny story after another. Romero relaxed a little.
A small white van drove out from the embassy buildings. It was easy to follow, the traffic was flowing freely and they knew where it was going.
10.30 a.m.
The van turned into the Customs transit car-park at Roissy airport. Romero let it go ahead for a few moments and then followed it into the supervised area, showing his police card. Sener remained nearly an hour in the Customs office, then he returned, along with a packer and a large sealed crate, on a trolley. It was manoeuvred into the van, which then left, followed by the two inspectors in their Renault 5. They returned to Paris without incident.
12.15 p.m.
The van drove into the embassy garage in avenue de Lamballe.
Another wait. Marinoni went to have a drink in a café twenty metres away. Romero made notes about the various moves that had taken place in the morning, adding the exact times, then he started on the crosswords.
12.45 p.m.
Sener reappeared at the wheel of a dark blue 205 with a Paris registration. He drove towards the city centre. At that time of day it was still not difficult to follow a vehicle. Sener parked on a pedestrian crossing in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, got out of the 205 and took from the back seat a plastic bag from FNAC which seemed to contain a rectangular box. Romero remained at the wheel and Marinoni followed Sener on foot.
1 p.m.
Marinoni came back.
‘Sener’s sitting at a table in the Brasserie Flo in cour des Petites-Ecuries, along with a woman of about fifty. They seem to know each other well. They’ve ordered lunch, they’ll be there for some time. Let’s go and have a bite to eat too, I’m really starving.’
It took twenty minutes to swallow some hot food in a brasserie in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, while keeping an eye on the entrance to cour des Petites-Ecuries. Then they walked slowly towards the Brasserie Flo, talking as they did so.
2.45 p.m.
Sener came out with the woman whom Marinoni had seen earlier. Fairly average, about fifty, tall and slightly plump, chestnut hair, permed and tinted, discreet make-up, classic suit. No time wasted on her appearance, but well groomed. Now she was carrying the FNAC bag. They separated in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. He embraced her, kissing her lightly on the lips, then, in stylish fashion, kissed her hand, with meaningful implications.
‘I assume that Sener’s the old girl’s lover.’
‘Looks like it.’
She turned right, followed by Marinoni. Sener went back to his car, with Romero after him, absent-mindedly stuffed the parking ticket in his raincoat pocket and drove off. Romero followed without difficulty.