‘We’re not only interested in Turkimport. It’s just one of the names.’
‘Stop. I’m not stupid. You’ve given up a whole Sunday morning just to pick up something about Turkimport. Now that you’ve got something, take it further. I started work very early this morning, I want to get back home as soon as possible.’
‘Why do you want to talk to cops about Turkimport, outside duty hours?’
Smile. ‘Suspicious, it’s normal. But you’ll have to take risks.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’m over forty, I have a family, I lead a conventional life. It’s just that sometimes I get fed up with being told to be quick, not to try too hard. Customs officers are treated like half-wits. My brother and one of his friends were working on the flight of French capital to Switzerland. With not very orthodox methods, no doubt, but with the green light from their superiors. As long as they discovered accounts held by ordinary French people, all was well, they were heroes. Two weeks ago they brought back a print-out which included the names of members of the government. Three days later they fell into a trap set by the Swiss. They’ve been in prison over there in Basle, for over a week, and everyone’s been letting them down. Not even a word in the papers. There’s a rumour that they’ve been “exchanged” in return for information about bent coppers who have bank accounts in Switzerland. I’m helping you about Turkimport because it’s both personal vendetta and professional revenge.’
A pause. Romero and Marinoni didn’t react. Dumont went on: ‘I can tell you how the Turkimport business is carried out, at least for the export side. The papers are always in order. Deliveries every week, twenty or so packing-cases. We always check the first one, not the others. For the last two years I’ve been waiting to know what’s inside them.’
‘Why not open them?’
‘Because we have orders. Turkimport is protected.’
‘Who by?’
‘I don’t know exactly. It comes from government departments, probably going through our secret services. Are you really looking for drugs?’
‘Let’s say we are.’
‘I’d be tempted to imagine something else. Illegal transfers of technology, things of that sort. In view of the type of protection.’
‘How are the Turkimport operations carried out?’
‘Every Monday morning twenty cases arrive. Customs inspection. Then they go to the transit area and despatch takes place over a week, depending on the space available in the planes leaving for Istanbul. Turkimport doesn’t have its own airlines. Let’s get some fresh air out on the pavement.’
They stood by the cars.
‘We’ll make a date for tomorrow evening. About 10 o’clock. I’ll take you into the transit zone warehouse area, I’ll manage to leave you alone somewhere and I’ll come back for you about 2 o’clock in the morning. OK with you?’
‘OK with us.’
28
6p.m. At the Bouffes du Nord
At 6 p.m. precisely Soleiman, along with two Turkish friends from the Committee, entered the building where Jencovitch had his workroom. The Turkish workers were waiting for them upstairs. Three minutes after Soleiman, Romero, in the uniform of a Telecom worker, came through the door in his turn and went to a dark corner under the main staircase where there was a tangled mass of cables, quite different from the normal security systems in modern blocks. He’d examined them in advance with an expert. He cut the cable which he’d marked with red. From that moment the Jencovitch workroom no longer had a telephone.
Three floors up, Soleiman had just come in. Daquin had warned him: ‘This is the most delicate part of the operation. Don’t let your arrival go wrong.’ The Turks stood up.
‘I don’t mean any harm to anyone. But I’ve got the right to have a man-to-man discussion with that bastard who gets workers roughed up by the cops.’
Stake everything on surprise and speed. The Turks went round the tables and collected anything lying about that could be used as weapons, such as scissors or craft knives.
‘All right then, everyone leave, it’s time.’
Glances at the boss, who was frozen with astonishment. The Africans began the walkout, the Yugoslavs followed, with some encouragement from the Turks. Romero heard them coming down the stairs above his head, looked at his watch and began to time the operation. Daquin had said ten minutes.
Upstairs there was no one left, only Soleiman and the boss, facing each other. The latter began to recover.
‘I’ll call the police.’
‘Try, your phone’s cut off.’
The boss rushed over and picked up the receiver: no dialling tone. He went towards the door.
‘No point, the Turks have locked it and you haven’t got your keys any more.’
The boss searched his pockets: no keys.
‘You see, stop worrying and look at these photos.’
And Soleiman put down on a table three large photos and moved one step away.
The boss looked. His wife, his wife totally naked, making love with Meillant. On his own bed. He was livid.
‘Haven’t you ever seen them at it? He’s quite gifted, the Superintendent, even if he looks a quiet fatherly type. I’d be surprised if you did all that with your wife.’
Daquin had said: ‘Destroy him utterly before you come to blows, it’s safer.’
The boss, mad with panic and anger, came towards Soleiman.
‘What do you want of me, then? What do you want of me?’
This was the moment. Soleiman wasn’t a fighter. But Daquin had rehearsed him: ‘When he comes close to you, threaten him in the neck, as though you were going to catch hold of him and strangle him. Knock him down flat with a kick in the crotch. Knock him down with a single blow.’ The man collapsed, screaming, clutching his crotch. Incredibly easy. Anger and bitterness were satisfied. As the man lay on the floor Soleiman kicked him in the ribs, although he hardly knew why. He caught hold of his shirt and dragged him over to the wall, propped him up, held him with his left hand and struck him hard, three times, with his right. A trace of blood on his hand.
At the bottom of the stairs Romero had reconnected the telephone and removed his Telecom worker’s overall. He went out and sat in the unmarked police car which was parked on the other side of the crossroads, by the taxi rank. From there he watched the entrance to the building.
Jencovitch was ready now. He had difficulty in breathing, stabs of pain, blood in his mouth, the image of his wife before his eyes. He didn’t understand anything that was happening to him, he was afraid of dying. Soleiman began to speak: ‘You don’t interest me, it’s Meillant I want. You’re going to tell me now what you’ve been paying Meillant, for how long and what he’s been doing for you in exchange. If you refuse to talk I’ll show the photos tomorrow morning to all your workers and in all the Yugoslav cafés. Your wife could always take up a career as a tart, but as for you, you could just pack your bags.’
‘It’s been going on for five years.’ He spat, there was blood in his saliva, he kept his eyes closed. ‘I pay a 1,000 francs a month. I get a warning in advance if there’s to be a work inspection. And if a worker causes me trouble Meillant arrests him. After that the man behaves. Since I’ve been paying I’ve never had any trouble.’
Daquin had told Soleiman: ‘Keep the pressure up all the time, don’t allow him a single moment to recover. He mustn’t stop being frightened.’ Soleiman stood up, caught hold of a wooden chair and smashed it hard against the cutters’ table. Then he took the firmest strut out of it and came up to the man on the floor.
‘Do you realize I could break your limbs without any trouble? You’re on your own. Your wife’s been called in by the police. And she’ll stay there as long as I’m here. There’s nobody in the flat opposite. Do you understand what that means?’ The boss looked at him. ‘You’ll pick up the telephone and call Meillant.’