Paul went back to the crux of the matter. He needed to hear confirmation for himself. "And these heads really look like the victims' faces?"
"It's amazing, Captain. The same cracks, the same mutilations. There's one statue, of a fertility goddess called Commagene, which is identical to the third victim. No nose, the chin rubbed down.. I've superimposed the two pictures. They're identical down to the last detail. I don't know what it all means, but it really gives you the shits, I."
Paul knew by experience that after long inquiries, the vital clues could sometimes fall together in the space of a few hours. Though Matkowska continued his report, Paul could hear Ajik's voice once more: He's obsessed by Turkey 's prestigious past. He, too, has his own foundation, which finances archaeological work.
Was the golden boy financing restoration work on that very site? Did those ancestral faces fascinate him for some personal reason? Paul paused, breathed deeply, then asked himself the vital question: Was Azer Akarsa the main killer? The leader of the commando unit? Could his passion for ancient stone go as far as to express itself in acts of torture and mutilation? It was too early to go any further.
Paul closed his mind to that theory and ordered, "Concentrate on these monuments. Try to find out if there's been any recent restoration work. And if so, who's financing it."
"Do you have an idea?"
"Maybe a foundation, but I don't know what it's called. If you find one, look at the names of its organizers and its main financiers. Look out for a certain Azer Akarsa."
Once again, he spelled the name. Sparks of fire now seemed to be bursting out between those letters, like shards of flint.
"Is that all?" the officer asked.
"No," Paul said breathlessly "Also check up on the visas given to Turkish nationals since last November. See if Akarsa was one of them."
"But that'll take hours!"
"No it won't. Everything's computerized. I've already put someone on the visa lead at the immigration office. Contact him and give him the name. And be quick about it."
"But -"
"Move it."
64
Didier Laferrière, 12 Rue Boissy-d'Anglas, eighth arrondissement.
When he walked through the door, Paul had a feeling-a cop's hunch, an almost paranormal sensation. There was something for him here.
The surgical suite was totally dark. The doctor, a little man with gray frizzy hair, was sitting behind his desk. In a neutral voice, he asked, "The police, is it? What can I do for you?"
Paul explained the situation and produced his photos. The surgeon seemed to shrink even further. He switched on his desk light and leaned over the pictures. Without a moment's hesitation, he pointed at the portrait of Anna Heymes and said, "I haven't operated on her, but I know this woman."
Paul clenched his fists. Sweet Jesus, he had hit lucky.
The surgeon went on. "She came to see me a few days ago.”
“Can you be more precise?"
"Last Monday. If you want, I can check my diary-"
"What did she want?"
"She behaved rather oddly."
"In what way?"
The surgeon shook his head. "She asked me a series of questions about the scars left by certain operations."
"What's so odd about that?"
"Nothing. It's just… either she was playacting or she's suffering from amnesia."
"Why?"
The doctor tapped his finger on the portrait of Anna Heymes. "Because she has already had surgery. At the end of the consultation, I noticed her scars. I have no idea what she wanted from me. Maybe she was thinking of suing the person who operated on her." He looked at the picture. "But whoever it was did a splendid job."
Another mark for Schiffer. In my opinion, she must be investigating her own past. And that was exactly what had happened. Anna Heymes was tracking Sema Gokalp.
Paul was drenched in sweat. It felt as though he were walking a path of fire. The target was there, in front of him, within arm's reach. "Is that all she said?" he asked. "She didn't leave an address, a phone number?"
"No. She just said, 'I'm going to have to see for myself first.' I've no idea what she meant. Who on earth is this woman?"
Without a word, Paul stood up. He grabbed a wad of Post-its from the desk and wrote down his cell phone number. "If she ever gets back in touch with you, do your best to locate her. Talk to her about her operation. About possible side effects. Make something up. Just pinpoint her, then call me. Okay?"
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Paul stopped, his fist on the door handle. "Why's that?”
“I don't know. You're all red."
65
Pierre Laroque, 24 Rue Maspero, sixteenth arrondissement.
Nothing.
Jean-François Skenderi, Clinique Massener, 58 Avenue Paul Doumer, sixteenth arrondissement.
Nothing.
At 2:00, Paul was crossing the Seine once more. Toward the left bank.
He had stopped using his flashing light and siren-too much of a headache-and was looking for some snatches of peace among the faces of the pedestrians, the colors of the shop fronts and the gleam of sunlight. He was amazed by all these city dwellers living out a normal day in a normal existence.
He called his lieutenants several times. Naubrel was still battling it out with the chamber of commerce in Ankara, while Matkowska was trawling through the museums, archaeological institutes, tourist offices and even UNESCO in search of the agencies that were funding work at Nemrut Dagi. At the same time, he was keeping an eye on the list of visas that the search progam had spit out, but Akarsa's name stubbornly refused to appear.
Paul was sweltering inside his own body. Fiery rashes were burning his face. A migraine was pulsating down into the nape of his neck. His heartbeat had grown so loud he could count his pulse rate. He needed to stop at a drugstore, but he kept putting that off until after the next intersection.
Bruno Simmonnet, 139 Avenue de Ségur, seventh arrondissement. Nothing.
The surgeon was a huge man, holding a bulky tomcat in his arms. Seeing them together like that, in perfect harmony, it was impossible to say who was stroking whom. Paul was putting away his pictures when the doctor remarked. "You're not the first person to show me that face."
Paul started. "Which one?"
"This one." Simonnet pointed at the Identikit portrait of Sema Gokelp.
"Who showed it to you? A police officer?"
The man nodded, his fingers still tickling his cat's neck.
Paul thought of Schiffer. "Was he middle-aged, tough looking, with silvery hair?"
"No. He was young. With scruffy hair. Like a student. He had a slight accent."
Paul took each blow like a boxer on the ropes. He had to lean against the marble mantelpiece. "Was his accent Turkish?"
"How should I know? But oriental, probably, yes."
"When did he come?"
"Yesterday morning."
"What name did he give?"
"He didn't."
"Any means of contact?"
"No. Which was strange. In the movies, you always leave your calling card, don't you?"
"I'll be back."
Paul ran to his car. He grabbed one of the photos of Türkes's funeral in which Akarsa could be seen. When he returned, he asked, "Can you see the same man in this picture?"
The surgeon pointed at the man in the corduroy jacket. "That's him. No doubt about it." He looked up. "So he's not one of your colleagues?"
Paul fished up a few scraps of cool from the depths of his soul and showed him the portrait of the redhead once again. "You told me that he asked you to identify this woman. Was it the same picture? An Identikit like this one?"