The hall filled rapidly: 500 people, all men with moustaches, arrived. The atmosphere was overheated. Bedlam. You had to shout to make yourself heard. And soon you could hardly see anything any more for the thick cigarette smoke. Everywhere were NO SMOKING notices and burn marks of stubbed-out cigarette ends on the carpet and seats. In the polished stone entrance hall was a coffee machine; dirty paper cups overflowed from the rubbish bins spilling into the hall and assembly room.
Soleiman was on the platform, with three Frenchmen supporting the committee and participating in the negotiations, along with a Turkish student who’d agreed to come and translate for the French. Soleiman opened the general assembly by asking members to confirm his appointment as Secretary General. Unanimity, public acclaim. A surge of intense happiness. That I, in my lifetime, should have known this, at least once, he thought. He began by recalling the positions the committee defended during the negotiations: that papers were to be provided for all Turks who had work. The logical conclusion was therefore to reject the government’s ‘legalization’. Enthusiastic shouts of support. The student faithfully translated.
And, now, what do we do? The general assembly exploded into a jumble of vehement, confused proposals.
Start another strike? No agreement, we’d lose money and the government doesn’t give a damn.
A demo? We’ve already had several, which weren’t very effective, we must find another way.
The student was still translating.
A bomb at the ministry? Not very interesting, we’d be unleashing police operations and losing public sympathy. The student was still translating.
At that moment, a moustachioed man stood up and made a long proposal. Silence was gradually established. Around him, one, two, three, then ten people stood up. There was a thunder of applause. Soleiman was as white as a sheet. The student refused purely and simply to translate. The French were getting anxious. Soleiman suggested the meeting be adjourned and left to discuss things with several friends. The French managed to have what had just been said translated: that the committee should write a memorandum of their position in a letter to the Press, then a Turkish volunteer should jump from the first storey of the Eiffel Tower every two hours. Beginning tomorrow, Monday, at midday and continuing until the government gives in … The boys who had stood up were volunteering to commit suicide. At this point there was straightforward panic among the French, who were convinced that the Turks were truly capable of doing it.
Soleiman returned, the general assembly continued. He had another proposal: tomorrow morning, let’s boycott the legalization office set up by the ministry. No Turks will turn up, and none are going to as long as the committee’s positions don’t form the basis of the legalization. And Soleiman defended his position in an impassioned tone: it was less heroic, perhaps, but more realistic, and would involve everyone’s participation. The working class exists because of its collective solidarity, not because of its martyrs. The student translated everything he could. The general assembly was swung over, Soleiman was given an ovation and the decision taken. He was sweating, his hands moist. A Frenchman shivered nervously.
And now the boycott had to be organized. Small groups were formed and these would immediately spread out to cover all the bistros in the Sentier. A meeting was set up for fifty or so militants, including the French, who would gather tomorrow morning in front of the legalization office and use dissuasion tactics, should the need be felt.
All over. It was 6 p.m. The general assembly broke up slowly, as though with regret. Soleiman and the French were the last to leave the room. A vague glance at the battlefield, littered with papers, rubbish, paper cups, cigarette ends overflowing everywhere. It reeked of stale tobacco. Their anxiety created solidarity: if the boycott were to fail (and was it possible for a boycott of this sort to succeed?), all that would be left for them to do would be to go and pick up the corpses on the Champs-de-Mars, watched by gawping tourists. At least the first one, before the cops locked everyone up.
7 p.m. Drugs Squad
In the office, the atmosphere was smoky and tense. Quite a few people: the chief, his sidekick, one of the men in charge of the Organized Crime Squad, a member from the office of the Police Director, a technician from Drugs, a specialist in electronics. Daquin arrived last. He was at first surprised, then amused.
The technician gave a summary of the ‘inventory of fixtures’. On the ground floor were three microphones hidden in a cupboard and connected to a recording machine buried outside, a device which was practically impossible to detect unless one were looking for it. On the first floor, a camera had been hidden in the bedroom, behind one of the spotlight fittings in the ceiling. It was directed on to the bed, of which it had complete coverage. The work of a pro, and very sophisticated materials: extra-flat, silent, the camera turned itself on to infra-red, that’s to say, whenever there was human activity in its field of vision. The technician was silent.
‘What have you done with the matériel?’
‘We’ve left it all in working order and removed any trace of our being there.’
‘What services do we have who have use of this matériel?’
‘Well, they all have microphones. As for the camera, no one to my knowledge has it. And in my case it’s the first time I’ve seen that type of apparatus.’
‘Daquin, what’s your view?’
‘I have a possible theory: traffickers know that I’m on their trail. They have to react. By having me followed, installing the microphones, they’re trying to get information on the state of the investigation. The camera’s something else. They must have heard it said I like boys,’ a glance around the room, ‘and they probably imagine they can make me squeal, or else put pressure elsewhere to get me off the case. There’s another theory, apparently: one of our services wants to be in the know about the investigation into the Turkish network. Or practise blackmail for its own ends.’
‘That theory’s rejected, for the moment.’ The Chief looked piqued. ‘Leave everything in its present state. We’ll watch your house from tomorrow morning onwards, and we’ll tail the “plumbers” when they come to read the meters.’
After a few practical details of how the work would be set in motion, everyone left. Daquin remained alone with his chief.
‘If it is one of our services, which I don’t exclude, I could quite well see they might have connections with the Marseilles trail and its American end, from whence the hyper-sophisticated materiél. We can determine that very quickly. One way or another, they’ll know that we know, and no one will come to read the meters. If they’re traffickers, there’s a bit more of a chance they’ll fall into our trap.’
*
Under the camera’s eye, Daquin was in bed, all alone under the orange duvet. Longing to savour the acid taste of Soleiman’s skin once more, telling himself: don’t forget – it’s impossible to fall in love. What a shame.
15 MONDAY 17 MARCH
7 a.m. Sentier Metro station
A small group of militants, a mix of Turks and French were standing around Soleiman, just as they had a fortnight ago. Coffee and croissants. Tense and tired. No one had slept. Since the general assembly had ended, they’d been covering every part of the Sentier to explain why the legalization office opened by the government had to be boycotted, this Monday, 17 March. But wasn’t it too much to ask those who might have benefited from this measure to let such an opportunity pass them by?
Soleiman was risking everything in this venture. If the boycott went through, he’d establish his leadership in the Sentier once and for all, and keep a chance of satisfying Daquin’s demands. If the boycott didn’t go through, he’d be wiped out and Daquin could continue to play with him as he pleased. But he sensed that the idea had had a response in the Sentier. Ya hip Ya hop. Everyone or no one. By about 2 a.m. everyone who was a regular at the Café Gymnase was already in the know. That was a good sign. If the boycott hadn’t met with an intense response, the order wouldn’t have spre
ad like that.
Ever since Friday night, when he couldn’t go back to Daquin’s any more, Soleiman hadn’t been able to sleep. He lived to the rhythm of the committee, and the cafés in the boulevard, snatched a few moments’ sleep on a table, in a corner, and swallowed the pills that his friends gave him. Everyone in the Sentier used them to keep going during the Fashion Shows when they’re sometimes working at the sewing-machine for more than twenty-four hours at a stretch. They were good because they also stopped you feeling hungry and so reduced anxiety.
8 a.m. Passage du Désir
First ‘interview’ with a politician: a Breton deputy called Caron, from the Catholic right, a member of the club practically from the start. He has a different patter from the businessmen. He’s agreed on an informal interview with the police out of a sense of public duty. But can’t you see it can only be a crude conspiracy, with the end goal of compromising the people’s representatives, and, beyond that, democracy as a whole? You’ve no proof. There’s no trace of any payment by cheque or any means of identifying the member. I believe, then, in my duty, to protect the institution to which I belong. I believe in using parliamentary immunity and what’s more I don’t intend to respond to any notification to attend further interviews.
A small office meeting with Thomas, Santoni and their colleagues from Vice. There was still an ‘interview’ to do that afternoon with Paternaud, a radical deputy from the south-west, but ‘I’m ready to bet that he’s going to come out with exactly the same old patter. It smacks of something learned by heart. It’s time to change tack. One can conjecture that certain clients regularly use Thai children and that the murder’s committed by one of them. Let’s make a photofile of all the members, and go and show it to the Thai girls in Munich and Zurich and see what that produces. With a bit of luck we’ll find five or six regular customers and we can then turn the pressure on them.’
8.30 a.m. Rue de la Procession
Dirty, grey weather, A fine drizzle. A day in mourning at the start of a luminous spring. A bad sign? The group took up their positions on the pavement in front of the Immigration Offices, unrolled a banner, Ya hip Ya hop, and waited, soaked through, ill at ease. The offices opened at nine a.m. At a quarter to nine, some policemen arrived and pushed the little group and their banners back on to the pavement opposite. No resistance. At nine, the office doors opened. Nobody, nobody! It was hardly credible. At ten, a Turk came up rue de la Procession, on the Immigration Offices’ side. When he noticed the banner, he crossed over to Soleiman, who explained to him why they had to boycott. The man approved, apologized for coming: he hadn’t known, he hadn’t been in the Sentier yesterday. He greeted everyone and set off for the Metro. On the pavement, there was an explosion of joy. The French kissed one another, a Turk had tears in his eyes. It didn’t matter that it was raining any more.
During the whole course of the day, only five Turks would come through rue de la Procession. Not a single one would go into the legalization office. The minister had to negotiate, the minister would negotiate. We would return tomorrow.
10 a.m. Passage du Désir
A telephone call to Customs.
‘So, Sobesky and Romania? Have you been able to find anything for me, since last Friday?’
‘Yes, it’s about some raincoats manufactured in Romania. A request for transit for 500,000 articles, to be loaded at Le Havre, to be shipped to New York to the Blue and Stripes Co. manager: John D. Baker. Scheduled for the end of March. Exact date to be confirmed later. And, as an addendum, the importation of 20,000 raincoats by Francimper, a new trademark created for the occasion by Sobesky. You must excuse us, the file had escaped our notice last week. It had been filed with the transit applications … And then we were looking for Bulgaria.’
‘Nothing lost. When will you have the exact date?’
‘We should have it any day now.’
‘You’ll let me know immediately. And have you anything else in this file?’
‘Transport insured by Euroriencar Company, registered in Munich, branch at Gennevilliers.’
10 a.m. Avenue Jean-Jaurès
Romero was lying on his bed. He was leafing through a strip cartoon book without reading it, to pass the time, waiting for a reasonable moment to phone his distant cousin at the Turkish embassy. A glass of whisky to give himself courage and then, time to make a move! The phone was ringing.
‘Hallo.’
He recognized the voice.
‘Bonjour, Yildiz.’ Romero spoke into the phone.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear you, Romeo. I thought you’d never call me.’
Her voice was serious, and the accent could pass for charming, but the lady had the nasty habit of calling him ‘Romeo’.
‘Are you alone in your office?’
‘At this moment I am.’ With a laugh. ‘Why? Want to join me here?’
‘Don’t laugh at me, Yildiz. Do you know Turgut Sener?’
‘Yes, very well. He’s the Social Affairs attaché at the embassy. And we work in the same place, in the annex at boulevard Malesherbes. Would you like me to introduce you?’
‘No, not really, I’ve come across him in the course of my work.’ A moment’s silence. ‘It might be embarrassing if he knew I’ve been asking questions about him.’ Romero felt bogged down. ‘Yildiz, would you like it if we had dinner together? It would be much easier to talk about all this in a normal voice.’
‘Yes. I’d be delighted.’
‘What about this evening, at eight-thirty at the Hippopotamus in boulevard des Italiens?’
‘I’ll be there, Romeo.’
Romero hung up, very ill at ease.
11 a.m. Orléans
Attali, who’d only ever known Algiers when he was a little kid, then Marseilles and Paris, didn’t feel at home in the unhurried half silence of the real provinces. Monsieur Lamouroux was a chemist in rue Jeanne d’Arc, Orleans’ main street. He’d perhaps go and see him in a while. But for now he had an appointment with Madame Lamouroux, waiting for him at home in boulevard de Verdun, a short step from the station. A broad tree-lined boulevard, almost deserted at this end of a rainy morning. A large, affluent-looking, turn of the century house, surrounded by a small garden. No buzzer, a real bell instead. A charming woman opened the door and waited for him at the top of the steps. In her fifties, smiling, permed grey hair, little dark brown suit, pink blouse. Attali would have liked to protect her from her wayward daughter. She took him into the salon, obviously anxious behind her smile. She’d had no news for several days, but this wasn’t out of the ordinary, so why the police?
‘As I said on the phone, we’re looking for your daughter as a witness in an important and dangerous case. She’s no longer living at her usual address in Paris and hasn’t shown any sign of life to anyone since Friday. It’s possible that she would have tried to disappear when she understood the kind of business she’s become involved in. It would be better for her if we’re the ones who find her first.’
‘And what sort of case is it?’ A very small voice.
‘Drugs and procuring. Minors are involved.’
‘Virginie! She’s such a serious, gentle girl. Our only daughter. She writes to us every week. And comes to see us once, even twice a month.’
‘When was the last time she came?’
‘On 6 March. She came for dinner and left the following morning.’
‘Did she mention a trip abroad she’d just made?’
‘No. Not at all. She told us about her studies. Everything was going very smoothly. She seemed certain of finishing soon.’
Her room had flowery wallpaper with bunches of roses, pink curtains at the window, a pink flounced bedspread, a single bed, fluffy animals. A small veneered desk and shelves full of books: Stories and Legends, a collection of Classics on one side; Balzac in the Pléiade edition, Stendhal, Flaubert, on the other. Attali gazed, transfixed. He remembered what Sobesky had said: so it was no pure and simple lie. VL was simultaneously a well-mannered stud
ent from the provinces in this pink bedroom and a drug-ridden procuress in the Club Simon. He had a flash of intuition: if she had a secret, it was here he was going to find it, in this young girl’s bedroom, to which she’d come on 6 March, when she returned from New York.
‘Madame, would you give me permission to have a bit of a look through your daughter’s room?’
‘Certainly, inspecteur. But don’t make it untidy. I shall leave you. I’m going to prepare lunch. Will you stay and have some with me, inspecteur?’
He began with the desk. Bank statements. Orléans branch. Her income from modelling apparently, between 6,000 and 7,000 francs a month, in several payments. ‘She poses for fashion shots, she pays for all her studies, you know. She never asks us for a sou.’ Nothing else. The expenses of a young girl in Paris. A few fairly old letters. Attali made a note of the correspondents’ names. A small address book: all in Orléans and surrounding districts. Attali took it even so. Leave nothing to chance. School photos, holiday snaps of course, her first date perhaps. Nothing which seemed to have any bearing on her life in Paris.
He returned to the desk drawers, nothing was stuck underneath. The fluffy animals he examined one by one, felt them, found nothing. He lifted the mattress, gently tapped the walls, feeling faintly ridiculous, opened the windows, shook the curtains, opened books, searched the bedside table – it was empty.
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