Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  She makes him lie face down, sits on the small of his back. Next to him, she’s incredibly fragile. She begins massaging him, mewing softly to get herself into the rhythm. He lets her do it, groans with pleasure, encourages her. ‘Give your little daddy a cuddle.’ She lies on top of him, nibbles his neck, his ears. He stirs slowly, emits a few inaudible sounds, snatches at the carpet with his fingers. She turns him over on to his back. He looks pleased. She gently massages his dick. The man leans up on his elbows. He looks at this tiny body barely able to balance on his, turns towards the mirrors and smiles at them. He’s humming. She solemnly applies herself to her task. Her face is more attentive, her smile fixed, her eyes watching the other person’s reaction.

  All at once the man senses he’s being watched. He seems to be waking from a long sleep, but his eyes are glazed. The girl slowly raises her hands towards the man’s nipples and starts pinching them gently. The humming transmutes to a long moan. He sits up and she falls on the bed. He’s overcome with panicky fear. His eyes are dilated. He screams ‘She’s going to kill me’. He curls up, hands over eyes, and starts kicking out at the girl. ‘Is it a game?’ she asks, still smiling, but seems a little anxious. She avoids the kicks and tries to calm him by drawing him down on the bed, caressing his shoulders and nipples. ‘Remember, I’m your baby.’ But he screams again. ‘Don’t grow up, don’t grow up.’ Then he grabs her by the throat, shakes her, throws her down on the bed and squeezes, squeezes. ‘You won’t have me.’ She struggles a bit, not much, she’s completely crushed by the man’s massive weight. She can’t cry out any more. After one, two minutes she stops struggling altogether.

  *

  The cassette came to an end.

  ‘So, it was Bertrand.’ Romero and Daquin looked at each other.

  ‘That fat pig had had a bad trip.’

  ‘I’d expected it to be Kashguri.’

  ‘He must have been in a corner, full of heroin, masturbating. Then the two of them came out of it. Picked up the body, which they wrapped up in just anything. The girl was very small. They left Simon Video by the back alleys, completely deserted at night, to dump the body as far away as possible, but without crossing rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, which was busier. They went into the last building, found the door to Bostic’s workroom inadequately locked, hid the body beneath the gypsy pants and slammed the door behind them. They threw away the clothes somewhere else, or gave them to the Salvation Army. And, since they’d barely got over the trip, they forgot the video cassette. VL came by and found it. Things must have happened more or less like that.’

  ‘Can Bertrand lead us to Kashguri and Ali Agça?’

  ‘Wait. That’s not all I must tell you where I found the cassette. Baker’s video cassettes were divided up into three series by the FBI. First series, the cassettes filmed in Tehran, “secret defence”. I was spared those. Second series, the commercial stock. I worked with an agent from the FBI who helped me sort them out. Everything showing boys was eliminated, since I was looking for the murder of a young girl. I viewed a hundred speeded up cassettes. I didn’t know such things were possible. A young girl whose sex and anus had been slashed with a razor … I’ll skip that. In the end, nothing. Then the FBI guy told me there was a third series, Baker’s private cassettes, those he hadn’t had reproduced for commercial distribution, and the FBI thought that he used them for applying pressure or blackmail. Twenty or so altogether, usually scenes that were much more “soft”, classic adultery or homosexual love scenes.’

  Daquin laughed.

  ‘No doubt that’s the collection in which I might almost have ended up myself.’

  ‘You’d have been in very good company. Apparently there’s one cassette with the wife of a French cabinet minister. I wasn’t allowed to see it. And it was in that series that I found the Bertrand cassette.’

  For the last few moments everyone had been waiting for the finale. There was a short pause, while they digested the news.

  ‘If Bertrand was important enough in Baker’s eyes for the latter to find a means of pressurizing him, then it might mean that he could have a direct role in the network.’

  ‘The outcome may have been like this: VL went to the Club Simon, where she had a date with Kashguri. The studio was empty. She had a quick look at the cassette that had remained there and took it to Baker, whose little business she knew about, but she didn’t know who Bertrand was. Baker bought the cassette and had VL killed in order to protect Bertrand.’

  ‘What worries me about this version is that too much in it happens by accident.’

  ‘And for the time being we’re not even sure that Kashguri was present at the Club Simon during the murder.’

  ‘We’re not sure but it’s more than likely. He’s the member. And also he’s the one that the Thais recognized.’

  ‘There could be a quite different version. VL had been working with Baker for a long time. It was she who’d told him that Sobesky was the ideal sucker, and it was she who stayed in the house to observe him. On instructions from Baker she set a trap for Bertrand and made an appointment with him at the Club Simon. Remember: she left Sobesky for an important appointment. She arranged for Bertrand to swallow something nasty which would definitely give him a bad trip. If it went as far as murder, then all the better. While Bertrand was dealing with the corpse she dashed off to New York with the cassette.’

  ‘And was it Bertrand who had her assassinated by Kashguri?’

  ‘Or had her assassinated by the Kashguri method? Kashguri has a hold over Bertrand because he knows about the murder of the Thai girl. That’s the message he sent him when he gave us his alibi for the evening of 29 February. Bertrand’s reply: he has a hold over Kashguri by making him responsible for the murder of VL.’

  ‘How do you fit the 14 March lunch into that scenario?’

  ‘Baker had his faithful collaborator assassinated by Kashguri when he learnt, through Attali’s phone call, that the police were on to him.’

  ‘In any case we haven’t done enough work on Bertrand.’

  ‘We were ordered not to do it.’

  ‘That’s not a sufficient reason, as you well know. I’ve rather concentrated on Kashguri. We should have investigated Bertrand’s past. I’m sure we’re going to come across him somewhere between Tehran and Istanbul during the 70s, and involved with the CIA trafficking. Perhaps he’s a member of our own secret services. We’ll have time now to go into all that. We’ll start by arresting him for murder. But he’s a Deputy, protected by parliamentary immunity. It’ll certainly be complicated.’

  Daquin telephoned the Drugs chief while Romero made coffee for everyone.

  *

  It was after 5 p.m. when Daquin and his team went to Bertrand’s home. The day had been spent in various telephone calls. Various procedures had to be followed before Daquin could obtain authorization to interrogate the Deputy immediately, before he could be charged and arrested. In the end contact was made with the secretary in Bertrand’s office at the Assembly. After receiving a telephone call at about 3 p.m. Bertrand had immediately gone home, leaving orders that he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatever.

  ‘Who was this telephone call from?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. A man, with a foreign accent.’ Elevator. The door to the apartment was locked. They rang the bell. Nothing. Daquin sent for the concierge. She opened the door. They found Bertrand in his office, lying over the big leather armchair, a bullet in his head, the pistol on the floor. The enquiry would conclude it was suicide.

  Who had telephoned, or got someone to telephone? A friend in political life? A cop? Anna Beric? Erwin?

  Friday 23 May, 3 p.m. Passage du Désir

  Noted with half an eye in Libération …

  … It would be reasonable to assume that Sheikh Khalkhali would carry out with obvious awareness an apparently modest task for the man who had decided to exterminate the enemies of Islam … Twenty executions on Wednesday, nine on Thursday: the Sheikh has not d
isappointed his admirers … The thirty condemned men were accused of belonging to an international group who sold drugs throughout Iran and had connections with counter-revolutionaries abroad.

  *

  Attali, who had been somewhat tested by his New York trip, had asked for a few days’ leave, which he was spending with his family at Antony. Romero had taken a day off too. The Official Travel Service had grilled Kashguri’s two menservants, in vain. Daquin, alone in his office, was working on photocopies of Bertrand’s personal papers. Without much conviction. The ending of any affair is always bitter, but he felt totally apathetic. Kashguri and Agça had disappeared, and for the time being there wasn’t the slightest sign of a clue. Baker had died in New York and he hadn’t even seen him once. Bertrand had committed suicide or his suicide had been arranged before he could arrest him. Frustration and more frustration.

  Romero appeared at the door of his office.

  ‘Chief, may I disturb you for a few moments?’

  Daquin indicated that he could.

  Romero stepped back and showed in a woman, a bunch of curly red hair, white skin, golden eyes. Daquin stood up, fascinated.

  ‘Chief, let me introduce Yildiz, we’re going to get married, and I should like you to be my witness.’

  Once they had left Daquin closed his files and decided to start his weekend at once.

  Monday 26 May, 10 a.m. Passage du Désir

  The Official Travel people were tensed up.

  ‘All security measures have been reviewed and strengthened. We have two facts on our side. The first is that Agça doesn’t speak French and will find himself very isolated, because you’ve arrested most of the people he knew in Paris. We’ve arranged surveillance of all the remaining militants and extreme right Turkish areas in Paris, so far without results. Second fact: Agça is a bad shot. If we succeed in always keeping the Pope away from contact with the crowds, we can avoid catastrophe. We’ve planned to use helicopters and cars for his journeys: access will be carefully controlled: invitation only or passes. Twenty thousand volunteer lookout men have been taken on, plus three thousand state security police and five hundred plainclothes inspectors. There will be two very delicate moments because it will be difficult to keep the Pope at a distance: the meeting with the Polish community at the Champ-de-Mars, and the visit to Saint-Denis where the Pope is meeting the immigrants … you can see the sort of thing …’

  ‘It’s all the better that Agça, on the whole, looks very like an immigrant … Less like a Pole.’

  ‘For Saint-Denis we’ve informed the local council who are calling in the disciplinary services of the Communist Party.’

  ‘Well, then, everything’s going well.’

  ‘Every police force in France has received a photo of Agça. But we’ve still had no response. And about your side?’

  ‘On my side, nothing. I must tell you that since the death of Bertrand I’ve had no ideas. And I’m somewhat unmotivated.’

  *

  Telephone call from the chief of Drugs. He’d just been informed that Iran was asking officially for the extradition of Kashguri on charges of drug trafficking. Daquin made himself coffee and, in his armchair thought vaguely about Lespinois, who must be negotiating hard at this moment. With the Islamists, against Parillaud. Like the CIA in Afghanistan, against the Soviets … The drug traffic forming an element not to be neglected in confused strategies. And suddenly he had an idea. He searched through his files, found the address and telephone number of Oumourzarov and called his office at La Défense. The secretary. A wait.

  ‘Oumourzarov here. What do you want of me, commissaire?’ Slightly aggressive.

  ‘I should like to meet you and have a talk. There’s nothing official about this, and frankly, I haven’t told my superiors about it. They would certainly not have authorized me to telephone you.’

  A long silence.

  ‘Tomorrow, for an aperitif, 7 o’clock, at my place. You know the address.’

  Tuesday 27 May, 7 p.m. Enghien-les-Bains

  Daquin rang the bell. A click, the impressive black metal door opened, he went in. A servant wearing black trousers and a white jacket came to meet him. ‘Monsieur is waiting for you in the garden,’ and led him to the edge of the lake. There, beneath a chestnut tree, a garden table and armchairs on the lawn. Grey-blue lake beyond the tree-trunks. The water lapped against the stone wall. Oumazarov stood up to greet him and shook his hand. Very much the traditional businessman, young and dynamic. Daquin remembered having seen him on 4 April, in Kashguri’s apartment, then in the Drugs Squad offices, before he was released after a firm intervention by the Minister of Defence.

  ‘Commissaire, delighted to make your acquaintance in circumstances, let us say, acceptable for me. You’ve given me a few problems lately but you’ve given your government even more. Are you behind the Anglo-Saxon press campaign denouncing the violation by the French government of the embargo on weapons destined for Iran?’

  ‘No, I’ve got nothing to do with that. My government does what it considers right in that field. I only crossed your path when Carim and Bodrum, whom you know well, might possibly have taken part in the murder of Sener.’

  He was irritated. ‘Since then the French police have officially admitted the responsibility of the Armenian terrorists and the question is closed. Therefore you didn’t come to talk to me about that.’

  ‘True.’ At the mention of Sener it was the sumptuous Yildiz whom he saw in his mind’s eye. Double game, Romero had said. Could it have been triple? ‘I came to give you two items of news, which I’d like to discuss with you. First, Iran has just officially requested the extradition of Kashguri. Do you see what that means?’

  The footman arrived, carrying a tray with glasses and an ice-bucket.

  ‘Put all that down and leave us. What can I offer you?’

  ‘Vodka with ice, thank you.’

  ‘So, what does this mean, in your opinion?’

  ‘That the Islamists are definitely rejecting the pro-Westerners and the moderates, and in future it will be necessary to go through them in order to conduct business in Iran. It will soon be a disadvantage to be linked to Parillaud or the Bank of Cyprus and the East.’

  Oumourzarov prepared the glasses. They began to drink in silence.

  ‘And your second item of news?’

  ‘Kashguri has used the services of a Turkish extremist who had assassinated two of his compatriots here in France, and I think he had also executed Sener. His name is Ali Agça.’ Oumourzarov did not react. ‘We think that the said Ali Agça intends to assassinate the Pope during his visit to Paris.’

  Oumourzarov put down his glass in surprise.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I fear I am.’

  And Daquin gave a rapid description of the letter to the Milliyet and his recent visit to the Turkish police.

  ‘I agree that it’s hard to believe. But admit that if this did happen it would deal a very severe blow to certain Turkish interests in France. In plain words that makes two good reasons why you might risk finding yourself in the uncomfortable role of scapegoat.’

  ‘Commissaire, I don’t regret meeting you, I’m not bored for one moment in your company. Tell me now why you’re here, apart from the passionate interest you feel for the Turks living in France.’

  ‘Good question.’ Awareness of absence and emptiness. ‘My request is very simple. In the discussions you may have had with Kashguri can you remember anything, even apparently harmless, which could help me in finding Kashguri or Agça? An allusion, a joke, anything at all?’

  A long silence. The two men finished their drinks, sipping slowly while looking at the lake, luminous, without a ripple. A very beautiful spring evening.

  ‘Kashguri never spoke to me about Agça. For the good reason that he didn’t know him. Only one person spoke to me about Agça, and that was Bertrand.’

  Oumourzarov let Daquin absorb the news and then went on: ‘It was right here, he was sitting in you
r place. He described him to me as a very strange fanatic.’ Detached tone of voice. ‘And he told me that here in France his only acquaintances were the Catholic fundamentalists. That made me laugh, for I’m totally secular. But there may be some connection with your story about the assassination of the Pope.’ A pause. ‘Would you like to stay to dinner with us, commissaire? My wife would be delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  Wednesday 28 May, 9 a.m. Passage du Désir

  Daquin earned more scepticism than enthusiasm from the people in charge of Official Travel.

  ‘Search among the Catholic fundamentalists? What are your sources?’

  ‘No source I can quote.’

  ‘We’ve got no files about the fundamentalists. And what can a nationalist Turk, an Islamist, possibly have in common with Catholic fundamentalists?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, it’s not my culture. Do what you like about it.’

  Conviction that they would do nothing.

  *

  Soleiman went into the local squad office. He had come to settle once and for all the question of the machine-gun attack on the Association of Electrical Technicians, which had since been assimilated with provocation by the Turkish extreme right. An office on the second floor, an inspector with a typewriter, a statement. On that day, at that time, he was at the Committee office, surrounded with many witnesses. Signature. Soleiman went out. By the door a young cop in plain clothes looked at him with curiosity.