The sun at last graced the landscape. At the bottom of the valley could be seen red patches, yellow cracks and also clumps of green, vestiges of the plains that had created the fertility of the ancient kingdoms. Light lingered in the craters, digging out white, shimmering pools. In other places, they seemed already to be evaporating, rising up in powder, reducing each detail to a myriad of spangles. Elsewhere, the sun played off the clouds, with shadows passing across the mountains like expressions on a face.
He was gripped by an inexpressible emotion. He could not convince himself that this was his land, that he himself belonged to that measureless beauty. It was almost as if he could see his ancestral hordes arriving over the horizon-the first Turks bringing their power and civilization to Anatolia.
When he looked again, he saw that there were no men, no horses, but only wolves. Packs of silvery wolves, blending in with the reverberations of the earth. Divine wolves, ready to bond with mortals and so give birth to a race of perfect warriors…
He continued on his path toward the western' slopes. The snow became at once thicker, lighter and smoother. He glanced back at his own footprints. They made him think of a strange script, translated from silence.
Finally he reached the next terrace, with its Heads of Stone.
There were five of them. Colossal forms, each measuring over seven feet tall. At the beginning, they had stood on huge bodies, at the summit of the burial mound itself But earthquakes had knocked them down. Some people had then stood them up again, and they seemed to have gained extra strength on the ground, as though their shoulders were the very flanks of the mountains.
In the middle was Antiochus I, king of Commagene, who wanted to be buried amid these half-Greek, half-Persian gods, born of the syncretism of a lost civilization. By his side, there was Zeus-Ahura Mazdah, the god of gods, incarnate in lightning and fire; then Apollo Mithra, who demanded that men be sanctified with the blood, of bulls; Tyche, who, beneath her crown of corn and fruit, symbolized the kingdom's fertility…
Despite their power, they had youthfully placid expressions on their faces, mouths like fountains, curly beards… Above all, their large blank eyes seemed to be dreaming. Even the worn and snow-covered guardians of the sanctuary, the Lion, king of beasts, and the Eagle, lord of the skies, added to the mansuetude of the parade.
It was not the right time yet. The mist was too thick for the miracle to happen. He tightened his scarf and thought of the monarch who built this sepulchre. Antiochus Epiphanius I. His reign had been so prosperous that he had thought himself blessed by the gods to the point of becoming one of them, and he had had himself buried at the top of the holy mountain.
Ismail Kudseyi had also mistaken himself for a god, imagining that he had the power of life or death over his subjects. But he had forgotten the essential point. He was a mere instrument of the cause, just a link in the Turan. By neglecting that fact, he had betrayed himself and the Grey Wolves. He had broken the laws that he had once represented. He had become degenerate and vulnerable. That was why Sema had managed to kill him.
Sema. Bitterness suddenly dried his mouth. He had succeeded in eliminating her, but it had been no triumph. The entire chase had been a waste, a failure that he had attempted to redress by sacrificing his prey according to ancestral law. He had sacrificed her heart to the stone gods The fog was lifting.
He knelt in the snow and waited.
In a few seconds, the mist would drift away, wrapping those giant heads for a final instant, drawing them up with its lightness, implicating them in its movement-thus giving them life.
Their features would lose their clarity and contours, then float above the snows. It was impossible at such times not to think of a forest. Impossible not to see them advancing… Antiochus first, then Tyche and the other immortals behind him, surrounded, beautified and enveloped in icy vapors. Finally, in that moment of suspense, their lips would open and they would speak.
As a child, he had often witnessed this miracle. He had learned to catch their murmurings and understand their language, which was mineral, ancient, incomprehensible to anyone who had not been born there, at the foot of the mountains.
He closed his eyes.
That day, he prayed for the gods to grant him their forgiveness. He was also hoping for a fresh oracle. Misty words that would reveal his future. What would his stone mentors whisper to him now?
"Freeze."
The man did so. He thought he was hearing voices, but the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple.
The voice repeated, in French, "Freeze." A woman's voice.
He managed to turn his head and made out a long figure, dressed in a parka and black ski trousers. Her dark hair, squeezed into her woolly hat, spilled out over her shoulders in two streams of curls.
He was baffled. How could this woman have followed him all this way? "Who are you?" he asked, in French.
"My name is of no importance."
"Who sent you?"
"Sema."
"But Sema's dead." He could not accept the fact that he had been jumped like this during his secret pilgrimage.
The voice went on. "I'm the woman who helped her in Paris. Who allowed her to escape from the police, to recover her memory, to come back to Turkey to confront you."
The man nodded. Yes, right from the start, there had been a link missing from the story. Sema Hunsen could not have eluded him for such a long time-someone must have helped her.
He blurted out a question, at once regretting his haste: "And the dope… where is it?"
"In a cemetery. In funeral urns. A little white powder amid all the gray powder…"
He nodded again. He recognized Sema's ironic touch, the way she had practiced her trade as if it was a game. It rang true-like a tinkle of crystal. "How did you find me?"
"Sema wrote me a letter. She explained everything. Her origins. Her training. Her specialty. She also gave the names of her former friends-and current enemies."
As she spoke, he noticed a sort of accent, a strange lengthening of final syllables. For a second, he looked at the statues' white eyes. They had not awoken yet.
"Why are you getting involved in all this?" he asked, perplexed. "The story's over. And it finished without your help."
"It's true. I got here too late. But I can still do something for Sema.”
“What's that?"
"Stop you from pursuing your monstrous quest."
He smiled and looked straight at her. She was a large woman, very dark and very beautiful. Her face was pale, crossed by numerous wrinkles, but instead of lessening her allure, these furrows seemed to frame and define it. Such a spectacle took his breath away.
She went on. "I read the newspaper articles in Paris. About the murders of three women. I studied the mutilations you inflicted on them. I'm a psychiatrist. I could give complicated names to your obsessions, your hatred of women… but what would be the point?"
The man understood that she had come there to kill him, that she had tracked him down so as to eliminate him. He was to die at the hands of a woman. But that was impossible. He concentrated on the stone heads. The light would soon bring them to life. Would the giants tell him how to react?
"And you followed me all this way?" he asked to gain some time.
"I had no difficulty locating your company in Istanbul. I knew that you'd go there sooner or later, despite the arrest warrant, despite your situation. When you finally appeared, surrounded by your bodyguards, I kept you in my sights. I followed you, watched you for days. And I realized that I stood no chance of getting near you, and even less of taking you by surprise…"
A strange determination emanated from her words. She was beginning to interest him. He glanced at her again. Through the mist of her breath, another detail struck him. Her overly red mouth, made violet by the cold. Suddenly, that organic color stirred up his hatred for women once more. Like the others, she was a blasphemous creature. An exhibition of temptation, sure of her power…