Daquin had been pacing about in his office for the last half-hour. The pressure was on and wouldn’t stop rising until 3 April. He would have to cope with it.
Romero telephoned and told him about Sener and the Association of Lighting Technicians. Keep trailing Sener.
Then the two officers from the disciplinary inspectorate arrived. Dark clothes, sombre expressions. They had a slight tendency to overdo it.
‘Madame Thomas has a Swiss bank account.’
‘You haven’t been hanging about …’
Smiles understood. ‘We paid. We had something to bargain with. Madame Thomas’s account is a joint account in the name of Monsieur and Madame Thomas.’
‘That alters everything. It means that Thomas can be implicated in his wife’s swindling.’
‘We’re going to do that. As of this morning. We wanted to tell you about it. Thomas will be in custody as from 10 o’clock.’
After they had gone Daquin spoke to the switchboard.
‘Whatever happens, I don’t want any calls from Meillant today, have you got that?’
The Drugs Squad chief on the line: Daquin, come and see me at once.
8 a.m. At the Committee
Soleiman had barely come through the door when the telephone rang. A Turk on the line.
‘We were at the general assembly last night. We’re on strike, the Committee must come.’
‘Where?’
‘24 rue des Maraîchers, 20th arrondissement.’
‘I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘Be quick. We’ve said we’re on strike, we don’t know what to do now.’
9 a.m. Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey
Attali, wearing a dark suit and tie, carrying a leather dispatch case in his right hand and a volume of the Encyclopédie Universelle tucked under his left arm, entered a building in avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, walked to the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor, the top one. That was where Kashguri lived. The elevator didn’t move. Attali was surprised and tried again. Still nothing.
A man’s voice came down from somewhere and told him, in crude French: ‘Give your name, please, and the reason for your visit.
Attali: ‘My name is Lambert and I’m selling books, the Encyclopédie Universelle.’
The reply came quickly: ‘We are not interested. No thank you.’
*
Less than half an hour later Attali found himself back in the main entrance hall, deeply discouraged, having experienced one rejection after another, on every floor, while learning nothing about the tenants of the apartment on the fifth. The concierge, a sturdy woman in her forties, wearing a tight grey woollen dress, came out of her lodge.
‘What are you up to, young man? Door-to-door selling is prohibited in the building, there’s a notice saying so.’
Attali assumed a dejected look. He didn’t have to try very hard. He showed her the Encyclopédie Universelle catalogue: the culture and science of the whole world, nobody wanted it.
‘That doesn’t surprise me. Come and have a beer in my lodge. That’ll cheer you up. I’ve no work at this time of day.’
The lodge was small: a table, four chairs, one armchair, a fridge. A television. The living-quarters must have been somewhere else. Attali sat down.
‘I got off to a bad start. I tried the elevator, I pressed the button for the fifth floor.’
‘Where the Iranians live.’
‘Are they like the Iranians we see on TV, yelling and refusing to release the American hostages?’
‘Just like that. Ours don’t yell but they’re the same sort of savages.’
She put the beers on the table and sat down beside Attali. She had rough hands and dyed hair. Why did she sit beside him and not opposite?
‘Have they been here a long time?’
‘Eight or ten months. The apartment’s magnificent, you know. And that Kashguri, that’s his name, lives there alone with four servants, two men and two women. I don’t know what he gets up to with them.’
Am I dreaming or had she moved her chair closer? What shall I do, for God’s sake, what shall I do?
‘In any case, the women, they’re Asian, never go out. Not once in eight months. And the menservants take things in turn. One does the shopping or drives Kashguri about, the other one stays up there, looking after the apartment and the girls. I think it’s suspicious. What do you think about it?’ And she placed one hand on his wrist.
‘That’s true, it’s not normal. Doesn’t anyone ever go up there?’
‘I never go, neither do the delivery people. But there are often receptions in the evening. In the end the tenants on the fourth floor complained. Fashionable people too at those receptions.’ She smiled at him and put her other hand on his thigh. ‘Feeling better, dear?’
‘I could drink another beer.’ She went to get it out of the fridge. Attali was sweating. ‘And when they have receptions, does the elevator work the same way?’
‘Yes.’ She sat down again and moved her chair closer to Attali. Her thigh was touching his now. ‘The people give their names. The menservants check them from a list and let them come up. One wonders what they’ve got to hide.’ Once again, her hand on his thigh, higher up, very near his dick.
Attali jumped to his feet, red-faced and tense.
‘Sorry, madame, I’m homosexual.’
He caught hold of his dispatch case and fled as fast as he could.
9 a.m. Rue des Maraîchers
A shop at street level, its windows painted over. Soleiman pushed open the door and went directly into the workroom. Thicket of cables, machines, as everywhere else. Eight illegal Turks, four French women workers and a little old man who was already elderly, in his seventies, quivering with rage. When he saw Soleiman come in he rushed to his desk at the back of the room, opened the drawer and brandished a revolver at him. The girls were terrified, the Turks ready to fight. Soleiman smiled. It was like a scene from vaudeville.
Half an hour later the boss put his pistol away and called the police station.
‘I’ve been occupied.’
‘Who by?’
‘Ten or so workers.’
‘Where from?’
‘They’re my workers.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘There’s a stranger with them.’
Soleiman, in a loud voice: ‘I’m the official representative of the Defence Committee for Turks in France.’
Nobody at the commissariat was keen to rush over: Dispute over working conditions, negotiate. Phone down.
Soleiman smiled, they began to talk. The boss, by name Gribsky, admitted in the end that he was completely ruined; he’d lost everything at the races, his own money and the money for the workers’ pay, and he’d been counting, he said, on the pile of finished garments at the back of the workroom for the workers’ wages. But there now, the Turks were preventing delivery, twice already the people who’d ordered them had been stopped from collecting them … The girls laughed: that old horror had been counting on the delivery to recoup what he’d lost at the races, fancy that! The Turks warned Soleiman that they would dismantle the machines that night and pay themselves out of the proceeds.
Soleiman to the boss: ‘Sell your business, lease, machines and stock. You’ll pay the wages and still have something left over. Otherwise, criminal bankruptcy, theft of machines, anything could happen … and you’ll be left with nothing.’
Gribsky went off in search of someone who could mount a rescue. The workers settled down to occupy the workroom. A meeting was arranged for the next morning at the Committee office.
9.30 a.m. Drugs Squad office
‘Théo, I’ve read your last two reports very carefully, as I did with the others in fact …’
Daquin waited.
‘I’ve been thinking about this plan for a raid when the raincoats are delivered. We’ll work together on the details. I agree we should play it that way. But you realize the dangerous nature of the operation, the many unknown factors …�
��
Still no reaction.
‘This morning I had a phone call from the chief secretary at the minister’s office. Yesterday one of your inspectors contacted two deputies, asking for interviews …’
‘Yes, Inspector Attali, on my instructions.’
‘OK. But the minister’s actual orders are clear: we have to forget the deputies. You’ve got no firm evidence against them … and that will free resources you can use to concentrate on the Turkish network.’
With a laugh. ‘Agreed.’
‘Aren’t you going to protest? Aren’t you going to tell me I’m not fulfilling my role, not protecting the work of my departments?’
‘No, chief. I’d expected it. I’m even surprised you didn’t say this earlier, and I’ll deal with it. On the other hand I’d like to know if the minister has anything to say about Kashguri.’
‘Yes, I was coming to that. We’ll drop any action against him as well, as long as there’s no formal evidence against him. Same treatment as for the deputies.’
‘Very well. Your orders will be respected. No action as long as we have no firm evidence. By the way, and obviously there’s no connection: I’ve got several people who’ve seen the identikit portrait of the man who killed my concierge and they’ve formally identified him as Kashguri’s manservant. What shall I do about it?’
3 p.m. At the Committee
The little windowless office was crowded with people. Soleiman had just reached rue des Maraîchers. He was drinking coffee at the little stall further down the corridor. He was happy.
A Turkish worker came to see him.
‘My name’s Yavouz. The boss owes me 6,000 francs. He sacked me a few days ago and doesn’t want to pay me. The Committee must help me.’
‘Have you got proof?’
‘Proof, what proof? I work illegally, I’ve never had a payslip.’
‘Let’s go. But not on our own.’
Fifteen or so Turks set off in a group and knocked discreetly on the workroom door. The boss, who wasn’t suspicious, opened it. Peaceful invasion, led by Yavouz. The boss, who was a Yugoslav, shouted insults and tried to snatch a pair of scissors to defend himself. Two workers came close to stop him. The tension dropped a notch.
‘You owe Yavouz 6,000 francs.’
‘That man? I’ve never set eyes on him. I’ll call the police.’
He grabbed the telephone and got the commissariat. He spoke French very badly. The man at the other end didn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
‘Isn’t there someone around who can speak French better?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put him on to me.’
The boss handed the telephone to Soleiman, who explained: labour dispute, unpaid wages.
‘Is there any fighting?’
‘No, none.’
‘Very well, sort it out,’ said the duty officer finally, and hung up.
‘The police won’t come,’ said Soleiman to the boss.
‘Yes they will.’
‘Very well, let’s wait for them.’
Everyone settled down, they played draughts, someone went to get coffee. The boss drank some along with everyone else.
Two hours later the boss realized the police weren’t coming. After all, maybe he did know Yavouz. He even remembered him. He’d worked there the week before. They began to negotiate. The boss offered 1,000 francs in cash at once. 3,000, no less. 2,000? OK for 2,000. Agreed. Yavouz was delighted. Everybody left. The boss watched them go downstairs. Goodbye, Monsieur Committee.
23 WEDNESDAY 26 MARCH
9 a.m. At the Committee
Soleiman was drinking coffee with four workers, two men and two girls, from rue des Maraîchers. The others had stayed behind to occupy the workroom.
Gribsky arrived accompanied by a flamboyant Lebanese, Hammad, who had parked his Mercedes on the pavement in front of the main door to the church. He stroked the girls’ cheeks, called them darling, and took bundles of banknotes out of his black dispatch case.
The telephone rang. A Turk.
‘Is that the Committee? Come quickly, rue d’Hauteville … The boss wants to sack a Turk.’
‘Impossible for me to come now, call back later.’
Hammad owned fashion boutiques in the Sentier and on the Mediterranean coast. He was tempted by the adventure of production. Intense discussions about the price of the machines, the stocks of finished garments, the back pay owing, the lease. No written document, no accountancy statements. In the end Gribsky, Hammad and the workers came to an agreement. A settlement was drawn up by Hammad, countersigned by Gribsky, the workers and Soleiman, on behalf of the Committee. Bundles of notes changed hands. Everyone went to celebrate at the local café, ogling the Mercedes on the way.
Soleiman went back to the office. Telephone.
‘It’s the Turk in rue d’Hauteville. OK, it’s sorted out, no need to come.’
‘And how was it sorted out?’
‘Well, the boss had attacked the worker on the head with a pair of scissors, the worker then cut his hand, right through. The manageress called the police The boss said it was an accident, the cops left. Both men are in hospital and the boss has said that the worker would keep his job.’
12.30 p.m. Avenue des Champs-Elysées
Sener was going up the avenue from the Rond-Point towards the Lido, accompanied by two members of the embassy staff. He was much too preoccupied to enjoy the good weather. He was in trouble on all fronts. On Monday Paulette had been arrested, the police asked the embassy for permission to question him and his political friends reproached him vehemently for compromising himself in various forms of trafficking which didn’t serve the cause … On Tuesday Paulette’s husband, a senior police inspector, was also arrested. Today he himself had an appointment in a few moments’ time in an attempt to negotiate his withdrawal from business affairs and his return to Turkey. It was going to be difficult.
Marinoni was also walking up the Champs-Elysées a short distance in front of Sener, while Romero was following him, his eyes fixed on Sener’s back. A group of Italian youths were larking about in a kind of game, concealing Sener from him for a moment. Romero tried to get closer. When he saw Sener again he had collapsed on the pavement and his two companions were bending over him with a puzzled expression. Romero rushed forward. Sener was lying face down, with a bullet hole below his left shoulder blade, while a pool of blood was beginning to form in the gutter. Romero stood up, looked round everywhere, saw only people walking along and Marinoni running towards him. He asked Sener’s two companions what had happened but they indicated that they didn’t speak French.
Romero left Marinoni waiting for the police to arrive and ran to a telephone box.
‘Hullo, Daquin speaking.’
‘Commissaire, Sener has just been shot in front of me, in the street, and I didn’t see a thing.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the Champs-Elysées.’
‘You’ll have to cope, Romero. Find a press photographer quickly. There are newspaper offices in the area. I want touching photographs of the dead man. Paulette’s custody has only got twenty-four hours to run. Don’t waste any time.’
2 p.m. At the Committee
The first sets of papers requesting legalization were starting to come in and the little office was overcrowded. Each dossier was examined. If it was complete it was photocopied, the Committee kept the copy and filed it. The worker only went to deposit the dossier at the Immigration Office after that had been done. In this way the Committee could really keep an eye on all the administrative decisions, case by case. A lot of work. But Soleiman took it on with enthusiasm. He felt useful and powerful. Not afraid at all. The telephone never stopped ringing. Two Turkish militants took it in turn to reply to the requests for information.
‘Soleiman, for you. A new strike.’
It was Hassan, one of the pillars of the Committee, on the line. He’d been working for a few days at LVT, a big workroom with sixty
or so workers, all clandestine, more or less. Yugoslavs, Africans, thirty or so Turks. A Yugoslav boss, Jencovich. That morning the Turks had asked him for work contracts to establish their legality. In reply the boss sacked them. The Turks remained sitting in front of their machines, doing nothing. If they got up they would be replaced by Yugoslavs.
‘The foreigners are continuing to work as though nothing’s happening,’ said Hassan. ‘You’ve got to come, it could turn violent.’
Soleiman looked for help from the people around him. Telephone, files, everyone was busy. There was a queue in the corridor outside the Committee’s door. Too bad, I’ll go on my own.
High up in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, near the overhead railway, past the Bouffes du Nord theatre, Soleiman went up to the third floor and entered the workroom. He’d never seen such a big one, six rooms, all looking on to the street. Otherwise a tangle of cables, machines, neon lights like everywhere else. At the very moment he went in a fight broke out between Turks and Yugoslavs. One Yugoslav collapsed with a scissor wound in his thigh. Carnage was imminent. The boss, Soleiman and the Africans intervened. The scissors fell onto the tables again. Two Yugoslavs laid the injured man down in another room.
Jencovich telephoned the Superintendent of the 10th arrondissement and then turned to Soleiman: ‘I warn you, I’ve called the police. I know the Superintendent. He’ll be here any minute. He’ll send all the Turks out of here. I employ the people I want to employ. And I don’t want that lot any more. And as for you, you’ve no right to be here.’
Soleiman suggested a discussion. Useless.
Sirens. Soleiman looked through the window. Three police minibuses, together with Police-Assistance, stopped outside the entrance to the building. Thirty or more cops in uniform got out as well as three men in plain clothes. They all rushed into the building and could be heard running up the stairs. Soleiman went pale.
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