Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  Daquin skimmed rapidly through the various notes scattered over his desk and came across one from the local squad inspectors – the office of the Association of Lighting Technicians had been machine-gunned the previous night. Shots at the ceiling. Two people slightly hurt by flying glass. According to witnesses the man responsible for firing the shots was a certain Soleiman Keyser, a militant from a Turkish group of the extreme left. People present at the Association office alleged they had definitely recognized him when he raised the visor on his helmet and shouted: ‘No place for Fascists in this district! Get out, or next time we’ll fire at your height.’ Search warrant issued.

  Daquin’s first reaction: Tonight I’ll get hold of him by the scruff of his neck and spank him. Second reaction: If I want to do that I’ll have to send two cops to find him. That sounds very much like goodbye.

  Friday 16 May, 9 a.m. Parish of Saint-Bernard

  Soleiman walked there, his head high, taking his time. The weather was fine, the Turks had appreciated the shooting of the previous day. Two hundred metres away from the church a Frenchman who had been looking out for him took him by the arm and pushed him into the nearest café.

  ‘The cops are looking for you. There’s already been a search at 6 o’clock this morning at Thévenard’s place, where your mail’s delivered. And two cops are waiting for you opposite the church. The Fascists are alleging that it was you who carried out the shooting at their Association’s office.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘We’re not asking anything of you. We see all this as provocation by the cops or the Fascists, that’s all. We’re taking you to the country for a few days, long enough for it all to blow over. Don’t argue, Soleiman. We can’t risk trouble now, when legalization’s just about to be achieved.’

  ‘But I’m not arguing.’

  The telephone rang. Ten minutes later a car arrived. Two French chums from the Committee sitting in front. Soleiman got in at the back. Rather odd route across Paris: somebody had already been killed in the rue Jussieu area and things were hotting up in the Latin Quarter. There had been endless detours to avoid the police roadblocks now set up at all the main crossing points. Soleiman, who was sitting low down at the back, was suddenly upset at the idea of being taken before Daquin between two cops.

  *

  At 11.30 the journey came to an end in front of an attractive stonebuilt house in the Vexin area. A big wooden door. Behind the house, sheltered from view, a very large garden, full of fruit-trees, some of them in flower. A plump woman came out of the kitchen, a Mauritian, with yellow skin, all smiles.

  ‘Maria, here’s the young man we’re entrusting to you.’

  ‘He’s sweet. No problem, I’ll take good care of him.’

  ‘Don’t go. I’ve no clothes, no money …’

  How can he say that he feels lost? And that Maria scares him?

  ‘We told you we’d look after everything. Maria will do the shopping and the cooking. As for you, you can go out in the garden, but not into the village. We’ve brought clothes, you’ll find everything in your room.’

  Soleiman watched the car go. Maria closed the door. Things were moving rather too quickly for him, he couldn’t really understand.

  ‘In an hour,’ said Maria, ‘lunch will be ready.’

  Soleiman smiled at her. From that point of view at least, I shan’t feel like a fish out of water. It was a lovely day. He took a few steps in the garden, stretched out on the grass in the sunshine and went to sleep.

  Saturday 17 May, 10 p.m. At Le Sancerre.

  Not many people were left in the bistro. Daquin and Steiger were alone on the small, enclosed terrace, with its panelling in light coloured wood and its intimate atmosphere. They were eating a splendid stuffed shoulder of lamb. With chilled Brouilly. Their conversation travelled all round the Middle East and then came back to the dismantling of the Turkish network.

  ‘Your friends aren’t co-operative. It’s frustrating. I wasn’t even able to interrogate Baker in person.’

  ‘You must know that he’s been assassinated.’

  ‘That’s what they tell me, yes. Assassinated in the shower by a junkie. Did you help him to die? Or is he starting a new career under another name in South America?’

  Steiger hesitated for a moment. ‘You don’t realize what a storm you’ve unleashed in the microcosmos of the American secret services.’

  ‘Yes, I do, I’ve some idea. It could be said, for example, that Baker had always worked for the CIA. He apparently belonged to a faction that had decided to use drugs against communism and the Soviet Union. When that comes out into the open it always creates a stir, and the others, those who are against the use of drug trafficking and favour more traditional methods, can take advantage of it. All things considered, I think he must have been liquidated.’

  ‘That’s not the most embarrassing thing in the Baker case. This type of conflict between rival factions is traditional in the CIA, and they know how to manage it. No, Baker did something much worse for the image of the CIA. While continuing to work for them from time to time, he’d set up a personal business in video cassettes awash with blood and porn, torture and murders filmed live, guaranteed authentic: it was extremely lucrative for him. And the funds for starting it up had been supplied by the live recordings of the tortures that the Savak inflicted on anyone opposing the Shah’s regime in Tehran, while Baker was employed there. It’s said that Baker himself did the filming. Apparently there were men burnt alive on heated metal plates, others whose bones were cut out while they were still alive. I won’t mention the mass rapes of women and children, in front of their husbands and fathers. The Americans apparently tolerate collaboration by civil servants with torturers in faraway places but transforming all that into porn videos is more difficult to admit. In short, the CIA didn’t want to take the risk.’

  Daquin was astounded.

  ‘And I knew nothing about all that. Do you think that’s normal? Now I know what Virginie Lamouroux went to do in New York. Frank, I must see those casssettes as soon as possible.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a taste for that sort of thing.’

  Daquin smiled at him.

  ‘Waiter, two glasses of champagne. What will you have for dessert?’

  Sunday 18 May, 1 a.m. Villa des Artistes

  Daquin was fast asleep when the telephone rang. He picked it up and glanced at his watch. Quarter to 1. He sat up, his bare back against the wall and the duvet pulled up to his waist.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Soleiman.’

  Daquin looked automatically at the chubby little blonde who was slowly waking up beside him, crumpled and delightful.

  ‘Daquin, I know what Ali Agça has come to do in France.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s come to assassinate the Pope.’

  ‘Explain, slowly. It’s late, I was asleep.’

  ‘I’m in the country. I’ve nothing to do. I spend my evenings dozing in front of the telly. I don’t really listen, but that’s the only thing they talk about, the Pope in Paris, at the end of the month. And suddenly, this evening, it reminded me of something. Agça escaped from prison in November 1979, when the Pope was visiting Turkey. And he wrote to the Milliyet to explain that he’d escaped because he wanted to assassinate the Pope, a symbol of the West, or something like that. I don’t remember exactly because I was on the run at the time, and then it seemed to me to be crazy, but you can check. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but maybe not. Are you still listening?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Goodbye, Daquin.’

  Monday 19 May, 8 a.m. Passage du Désir

  Lavorel, in a dark suit, wearing a tie, carrying an attaché case, accompanied by a Superintendent from the Finance Squad, came to hand over to Daquin his report on the papers seized in Kashguri’s apartment. He was terribly serious and, following all the rules, Daquin played the game and sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘Monsieur le commissaire, you’ll se
e that the Kashguri papers allow us to form a precise notion of how the Bank of Cyprus and the East functions. It finances the arms traffic directed towards Turkey and the Lebanon and also the setting-up of the Turkish network. It’s also the deposit bank for well-known drug traffickers in Syria and the Lebanon. This black money finances in part the bribes and various commissions paid by the European enterprises which work with the bank in the Near and Middle East, of which the most important is the Parillaud Bank. You’ve got all the details in the report. But nothing in those papers supplies any proof that Kashguri was implicated in any other way in the Turkish network. He financed it, yes, but nothing allows us to say that he was the mastermind.’

  ‘Thank you for the quality and clarity of your work. What kind of follow-up will there be to this report?’

  Lavorel said nothing and looked at his superintendent, who went on: ‘Since we’re on our own, I might as well tell you: probably nothing. The law doesn’t allow us to take action against banks that launder dirty money. And who would dare touch Parillaud?’

  ‘One more thing, Lavorel. Where have you got to with Anna Beric?’

  ‘She told me everything, as planned. We’re now arranging to call in the different manufacturers involved. It’s going to take a long time, but we’ll arrive at some staggering tax adjustments.’

  ‘Do you confirm that there’s nothing in the Kashguri papers that could link Anna Beric to the Turkish network?’

  ‘No, nothing. Anna Beric only comes into it through her use of the Bank of Cyprus and the East for sending money out of France, as several other manufacturers do, in fact.’

  ‘I think we’ll have to agree to her release. What do you think about it?’

  ‘I think we’ll find it difficult to avoid. Her lawyers asked the investigating magistrate to allow it, two days ago. I reserved my opinion until today.’

  ‘No objections on my side. However, I must tell you that I’ll have her followed and that the magistrate has already given permission for her telephone to be tapped.’

  Monday 19 May, 11 a.m. Office of the Drugs Squad

  Summit meeting, Chief of the Drugs Squad, Ministry of the Interior, Crime Squad, Official Travel Service. Daquin presented a report on Ali Agça. He had decided in favour of a strictly chronological exposé: surveillance of the sandwich shop, photos, identification, and therefore his presence in France and his links with the network all proved. Report by the Turkish police. The three murders ordered by the traffickers had, he was convinced, been carried out by Ali Agça, for the method employed was his.

  After 4 April, nothing more. Daquin explained the work he had had to do in order to establish a solid case against the traffickers and the French people who sold the stuff on, sixty or so altogether, the killers of Virginie Lamouroux and Madame Buisson, his concierge, Kashguri’s henchmen. The difficulties of bringing to light the financial procedures based on Kashguri’s papers. The vain search for Kashguri himself, all over France, many people questioned without any results. The setback experienced over the Turkimport company, which was exonerated in the end. And finally the two inspectors who had been working with him since the beginning, and who were therefore perfectly up-to-date with the case, were out of action for a time: Attali, who had been slightly hurt, and Romero, subjected to an enquiry by the police disciplinary service following the murder of Moreira. Fortunately he was a bad shot! All in all, he, Daquin, had not had time to deal with Ali Agça. He had taken up the case again a few days earlier. The first stage was to enlarge the report by the Turkish police, which was extremely brief. Work on the Turkish press. And at that point Daquin read out a translation of Ali Agça’s letter to the Milliyet, dated November 1979, in which he explained why he would certainly kill the Pope, who had commanded the Crusades. A long, impassioned document, nationalist, Islamist, anti-Western. Just a little crazy. All in all, plausible.

  Consternation. The Pope was due to arrive in Paris on 31 May. There were twelve days left to find Ali Agça or else learn that he had definitely left French territory.

  NARCOTICS EXECUTIONER

  ‘The Ayatollah Sadegh Khalkahli stated over Radio Tehran on Monday that he had resumed his work as head of the Iranian narcotics bureau. On 14 May the Ayatollah had resigned from his post as leader of the fight against drugs, four days after his appointment, since he considered his powers were limited. The Iranian president, Monsieur Abolhassan Bani Sadr, had asked him to reconsider his position. The Ayatollah has stated that his first big success was the seizure by his staff of 900 kilos of opium and the arrest of the traffickers.’

  Libération, 20 May

  Tuesday 20 May, 8 a.m. Roissy

  Attali flew to New York. The FBI were trying to identify the killers and the victims filmed live on more than three hundred cassettes. Those that had been recorded in Tehran had been classified as ‘secret defence’, but Attali would have free access to all the others, and an FBI agent would help him to make the selection.

  Daquin left for two days in Istanbul. His first meeting with the Turkish police, which had been long postponed due to the divergences of understanding between France and Turkey concerning the murder of Sener. But finally made possible from 14 May last, when the French government had officially recognized the responsibility of the Armenian terrorists. Two days to hand over to the Turkish government all the additional information it could hope for about the Turkish network. And to obtain everything possible about Ali Agça.

  Romero drove him to Roissy.

  ‘Manage things any way you want, Romero. When I come back I want the Turks to have handed over Agça. We’ve let Kashguri get away. One, not two.’

  There were ten or so inspectors along with Romero in the Drugs Squad. Results essential, all possible methods permissible.

  The top brass in the Official Travel Service and the Ministry of the Interior were taking a second look at the security arrangements planned for the Pope’s visit.

  Wednesday 21 May, 10 p.m. Roissy

  Romero, unshaven, exhausted, his clothes creased, came to meet Daquin. The airport was almost deserted. Daquin glanced critically at Romero’s appearance but seemed in a better temper than the day before.

  ‘Was Istanbul OK?’

  ‘Beautiful, beautiful town.’ A heartfelt thought for the wife of the director for Anatolian Studies, the little wooden hotel below Saint Sophia, the seagulls in the pinnacles, the dark shape of the basilica against the clear sky, the radiophonic tone of the muezzins. ‘I met police officers who knew Agça. According to them he’s crazy enough to plot the assassination of the Pope and lucid enough to have a chance of success. On the other hand, according to the Turkish cops, he’s a rather bad shot, which explains why he always shoots at point-blank range. That gives us a chance. After his escape, last November, he settled in Germany. They thought he was still there. As for the rest, no real clues. What about you?’

  ‘We’ve begun all the interrogations again. We’ve had no sleep since yesterday morning. Results: on Wednesday 5 March, the day when the photo was taken, Agça arrived in Paris, coming from Germany, apparently. Since then he’s completely disappeared. The Turks think he wasn’t living in Paris. One detail, interesting, perhaps: he doesn’t speak a word of French. We identified the two men who put up the leaflets round the Gymnase about the assassination of Osman Celik, and we got them to talk. It really was Agça who assassinated Celik. They were there to create a diversion and cover his flight. He didn’t even need it. He left again that same evening by car, with Celebi, the little dealer whose corpse I identified in Rouen. The decisions to kill Celik and Sener were taken by the leader of the network in France, whom no Turk has ever met. He was the only man to have had contact with Agça. He issued his orders by post to the two Turkish leaders in the shops, poste restante, written in Turkish. When they had to say or to ask for something, it went through Moreira and Kutluer.’

  ‘Well protected.’

  ‘So it seems. The Turks didn’t know that Celebi had been killed an
d they don’t understand why. That’s it. That’s all we’ve been able to get in two days of uninterrupted interrogations. They’re not kind-hearted. We’re tired, but so are they.’

  ‘From the little I was able to see over there, they must have acquired a certain resistance to tough interrogations, they’ve got used to them. Do you think there’s anything more to be got out of them?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Thursday 22 May, 8 a.m. Passage du Désir

  Attali, the first to arrive, had acquired a television from another office, with some difficulty, together with a video recorder, and prepared the cassette. He waited for the others. Tense, exhausted, somewhat confused by what he had seen during the last few days. Romero, Lavorel, and then Daquin came in and sat down round the table.

  Attali switched on the television and inserted the cassette.

  *

  The girl was there, sitting naked on the edge of the vast white bed in the middle of the room, with mirrors all round. She’s childlike yet already world-weary. In a corner is a Louis XV armchair, at the far end, a table-height fridge. On it are tumblers, flutes, goblets, an assortment of glasses. She’s gently swinging her legs and singing to herself. A man comes in. He’s also naked. She studies him, gives him the once-over. Around forty-five, bullneck, fat, small bum, thin legs, balding, but a real mat of ginger hair on his chest. She smiles and beckons, and he, with gluttonous face, sidles slowly towards the icebox, opens it, pours himself a very generous whisky. ‘Want a drink, baby girl?’ – he raises his glass to her. The gesture is rather too expansive: he sloshes the whisky on the thick white carpet. She shakes her head, says nothing, but has a constant smile. He drinks, lets the glass fall on the carpet, goes over to her, collapses on the bed, laughing.