At first, it felt as if he was entering the maze of a mine, with its tunnels and landings. Then his eyes got used to the darkness and he made out the nature of the place. White and black alleyways punctuated with thousands of niches, names, wreathes suspended in glass cases. A troglodyte city dug out of the rock.
He leaned over a shaft that revealed the lower floors. A white halo was shining up from the second level down: the men from forensics were there. He found another staircase and took it. As he approached the light, the atmosphere seemed to get even darker and heavier. A peculiar smell of something dry, sharp and stony itched into his nose.
When he reached the floor, he turned right. He was now following the smell more than the light source. At the first turning, he saw some technicians dressed in white overalls, their heads covered by paper hats. They had set up their base camp at the intersection of several galleries. Their chrome-plated cases, lying on plastic sheets, were open to reveal test tubes, vials and sprays… Paul approached silently-the two figures had their backs to him.
He did not need to force a cough. The space was saturated with dust. The cosmonauts turned around. They were wearing masks shaped like an inverted Y. Once again, Paul flashed his card. One of them shook its insectlike head while raising its gloved hands.
A muffled voice issued forth impossible to tell which one was speaking: "Sorry, but we've started looking for fingerprints."
"Just a second. He was my partner. Jesus-you can understand that, can't you?"
The two Ys looked at each other. A few seconds passed. One of the technicians then grabbed a mask from his case. "Third row," he said. "Follow the projectors. And stay on the planks. Not a single step on the floor."
Ignoring the proffered mask, Paul set of.
The man stopped him. "Take it. You won't be able to breathe."
Paul cursed as he slipped the white shell over his head. l e went along the first alley on the left, across the raised planks, stepping over the cables of the projectors that had been set up at each intersection. The walls seemed to never end, repeating a sequence of niches and commemorative inscriptions while the air particles gained in density.
Finally, after a last turning, he understood the reason for such precautions. Beneath the halogens, everything was gray: the floor, walls and ceiling. The ashes of the dead had escaped from their urns, which had been blown apart by bullets. Dozens of them had rolled onto the ground, mingling their contents with the plaster and rubble.
On the walls, Paul managed to identify impacts coming from two different guns-a large caliber, like a shotgun, and a small semiautomatic pistol, probably a 9- or 45-mm.
He went on, fascinated by this lunar scene. He had seen photos of towns in the Philippines that had been shrouded over after a volcanic eruption, their streets frozen by the cooling lava. Haggard survivors, with faces like statues, carrying stone children in their arms. The same picture was now in front of him.
He crossed another yellow band. Then suddenly, at the end of a row, he saw him.
Schiffer had lived like a dog.
Now he had died like a dog-in a final burst of violence.
His totally gray body was arched up, sideways, with one leg bent back beneath his raincoat, his right hand raised, curled up like a cockerel's foot. Behind, a pool of blood ran out of what was left of his skull, as though one of his darkest dreams had exploded in his brains.
But the worst part was his face. The cinders covering him did not quite conceal the horror of the wounds. An eyeball had been torn out-excised, actually, with all of its socket. Lacerations dug into his throat, forehead and cheeks. One of them, which was longer and deeper, revealed the jawbone, then rose up to the torn socket. It drew his mouth out into a ghastly grin, overflowing with silvery pink slime.
Doubled up with a sudden fit of nausea, Paul pulled off his mask. But his guts were totally empty. In his convulsions, the only questions that came to mind were the obvious ones: Why had Schiffer come to this place? Who had killed him? Who could have sunk to such a degree of barbarity?
At that moment, he dropped to the ground and burst into tears. Within seconds, they were running down his cheeks, with him not even thinking of trying to hold them back or wipe away the mud that was building up on his face.
He was not crying for Schiffer.
Nor was he crying for the murdered women.
He was crying for himself.
For his loneliness and the blind alley he was now in.
"It's time we had a word, no?"
Paul turned around at once.
A man he had never seen before, in glasses, without a mask, and whose long, dust-covered face looked like a stalactite, was smiling at him.
62
"So it was you who put Schiffer back into circulation, was it?" The voice was clear, strong, almost merry, matching the blueness of the sky.
Paul shook the ash from his parka and sniffed-he had recovered a semblance of composure. "That's right. I needed some advice."
"What sort of advice?"
"I'm working on a series of murders, in the Turkish quarter in Paris.”
“Was your idea approved by your superiors?"
"You know the answer to that already"
The bespectacled man nodded. He was not just tall. His entire bearing seemed to surge up, with his haughty head, raised chin and high brows set off by gray curls. A top investigator in the prime of life, with the prying look of a greyhound.
Paul probed a little. "Is this an internal investigation?"
"No, I'm Olivier Amien. From the Geopolitical Drugs Observatory."
Paul had often heard this name during his time at OCRTIS. Amien was supposed to be the king of France 's antidrug war. A man in charge of both the national and international squads.
They turned their backs on the columbarium and headed down an alleyway, which was reminiscent of a paved nineteenth-century side road. Paul saw some gravediggers smoking cigarettes, leaning on a sepulchre. They were presumably discussing that morning's incredible find.
In a voice laden with innuendo, Amien went on. "You worked for some time on the drug squad, I believe…"
"Yes, for a few years."
"In what field?"
"Petty dealers. Cannabis, mostly. The North African networks.”
“You never had anything to do with the Golden Crescent?"
Paul wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "If you got straight to the point, then we'd both save a lot of time."
Amien beamed. "I hope you don't mind if I give you a little lesson in modern history."
Paul thought of all the names and dates he had absorbed so far that day "Go on. I'm making up for lost time today"
The top cop pushed his glasses up his nose and began. "I suppose you remember the Taliban? Since September II, you can't escape fundamentalists. The media has been full of stories about their lives and works, blowing up the Buddhas, their hospitality to bin Laden, and their despicable attitude to women, to culture and to any form of tolerance. But there's one side of them that is less well known and that was the only good point about their regime. Those monsters fought effectively against the production of opium. In their very first year in power, they practically eradicated poppy growing in Afghanistan. From thirty-three hundred tons of opium-based products in 2000, the total fell to just one hundred eighty-five tons in 2001. In their eyes, such activities are contrary to the Koran… But of course, as soon as Mullah Omar was deposed, cultivation started up all over again. Even as we speak, the peasants of Ningarhar are watching the flowers bloom on plants they sowed last November. They'll soon start harvesting, at the end of April."
Paul's attention came and went, as though carried on an inner tide. His tears had softened his feelings. He was hypersensitive, liable to burst into laughter or start sobbing again at the slightest thing.