The surgeon shook his head. "She asked me a series of questions about the scars left by certain operations."
"What's so odd about that?"
"Nothing. It's just… either she was playacting or she's suffering from amnesia."
"Why?"
The doctor tapped his finger on the portrait of Anna Heymes. "Because she has already had surgery. At the end of the consultation, I noticed her scars. I have no idea what she wanted from me. Maybe she was thinking of suing the person who operated on her." He looked at the picture. "But whoever it was did a splendid job."
Another mark for Schiffer. In my opinion, she must be investigating her own past. And that was exactly what had happened. Anna Heymes was tracking Sema Gokalp.
Paul was drenched in sweat. It felt as though he were walking a path of fire. The target was there, in front of him, within arm's reach. "Is that all she said?" he asked. "She didn't leave an address, a phone number?"
"No. She just said, 'I'm going to have to see for myself first.' I've no idea what she meant. Who on earth is this woman?"
Without a word, Paul stood up. He grabbed a wad of Post-its from the desk and wrote down his cell phone number. "If she ever gets back in touch with you, do your best to locate her. Talk to her about her operation. About possible side effects. Make something up. Just pinpoint her, then call me. Okay?"
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Paul stopped, his fist on the door handle. "Why's that?”
“I don't know. You're all red."
65
Pierre Laroque, 24 Rue Maspero, sixteenth arrondissement.
Nothing.
Jean-François Skenderi, Clinique Massener, 58 Avenue Paul Doumer, sixteenth arrondissement.
Nothing.
At 2:00, Paul was crossing the Seine once more. Toward the left bank.
He had stopped using his flashing light and siren-too much of a headache-and was looking for some snatches of peace among the faces of the pedestrians, the colors of the shop fronts and the gleam of sunlight. He was amazed by all these city dwellers living out a normal day in a normal existence.
He called his lieutenants several times. Naubrel was still battling it out with the chamber of commerce in Ankara, while Matkowska was trawling through the museums, archaeological institutes, tourist offices and even UNESCO in search of the agencies that were funding work at Nemrut Dagi. At the same time, he was keeping an eye on the list of visas that the search progam had spit out, but Akarsa's name stubbornly refused to appear.
Paul was sweltering inside his own body. Fiery rashes were burning his face. A migraine was pulsating down into the nape of his neck. His heartbeat had grown so loud he could count his pulse rate. He needed to stop at a drugstore, but he kept putting that off until after the next intersection.
Bruno Simmonnet, 139 Avenue de Ségur, seventh arrondissement. Nothing.
The surgeon was a huge man, holding a bulky tomcat in his arms. Seeing them together like that, in perfect harmony, it was impossible to say who was stroking whom. Paul was putting away his pictures when the doctor remarked. "You're not the first person to show me that face."
Paul started. "Which one?"
"This one." Simonnet pointed at the Identikit portrait of Sema Gokelp.
"Who showed it to you? A police officer?"
The man nodded, his fingers still tickling his cat's neck.
Paul thought of Schiffer. "Was he middle-aged, tough looking, with silvery hair?"
"No. He was young. With scruffy hair. Like a student. He had a slight accent."
Paul took each blow like a boxer on the ropes. He had to lean against the marble mantelpiece. "Was his accent Turkish?"
"How should I know? But oriental, probably, yes."
"When did he come?"
"Yesterday morning."
"What name did he give?"
"He didn't."
"Any means of contact?"
"No. Which was strange. In the movies, you always leave your calling card, don't you?"
"I'll be back."
Paul ran to his car. He grabbed one of the photos of Türkes's funeral in which Akarsa could be seen. When he returned, he asked, "Can you see the same man in this picture?"
The surgeon pointed at the man in the corduroy jacket. "That's him. No doubt about it." He looked up. "So he's not one of your colleagues?"
Paul fished up a few scraps of cool from the depths of his soul and showed him the portrait of the redhead once again. "You told me that he asked you to identify this woman. Was it the same picture? An Identikit like this one?"
"No. It was a black-and-white photo. Of a group, in fact. On a university campus, or something like that. The quality was rather poor, but she's the same woman as in your picture. I'm sure about that."
The image of Sema Gokalp, young and valiant, amid other Turkish students, flashed before his eyes.
The only photo the Grey Wolves had. A blurred image that had cost the lives of three innocent women.
***
Paul drove off, leaving tire skid marks on the asphalt. He put his flashing light back on the roof and switched it on. Its gleam and the siren pierced through the bell jar of a day. Deductions poured though his mind. His heart beat in rhythm to their coursing.
The Grey Wolves were now following the same lead as he was. After three corpses, they had understood their mistake. They were now looking for the surgeon who had transformed their target.
Another posthumous victory for Schiffer. We're going to end up on the same track. I can just feel it.
Paul looked at his watch- 2:30. And only two names left on his list.
He had to get to the surgeon before the killers did. He had to find the woman before they did. Paul Nerteaux versus Azer Akarsas. The son of nobody versus the son of Asena, the white wolf.
66
Frédéric Gruss lived in the heights of Saint-Cloud. While Paul was driving along the fast lane toward the Bois de Boulogne, he phoned Naubrel once more.
"Still nothing from the Turks?"
"Sorry, Captain. I'm-"
"Forget it."
"What?"
"Do you still have your copies of the photos of Türkes's funeral?"
"Yes, on my computer."
"There's one where you can see the coffin right in the foreground.”
“Just a second. I'll get a pen."
"In that photo, the third person to the left is a young man in a corduroy jacket. I want you to make a blowup of his portrait and put out a bulletin in the name of-"
"Azer Akarsas?"
"You've got it."
“Is he the killer?"
Paul's throat muscles were so tense, he found it difficult to speak. "Just put out the bulletin."
"Okay. Is that all?"
"No. Go and see Bomarzo, the magistrate in charge of murder investigations. Ask him for a warrant to search the premises of Matak Limited."
"Me? But it'd be better if it was you who-"
"Tell him I sent you. Tell him I've got some hard evidence.”
“Evidence?"
"An eyewitness. Then call Matkowska and ask him for the pictures of Nemrut.”
"Of what?"
Once again, he spelled out the name and explained his thinking. "And check with him if Akarsa's name appears on the list of visa holders. Get all that together then head over to see the magistrate.”
“What if he asks me where you are?"
Paul hesitated. "Then give him this number." He read out Olivier Amien's mobile number. They can sort this shit out between themselves, he thought as he hung up. The Saint-Cloud bridge was in sight.
3:30
Boulevard de la République was quite literally glittering in the sunlight, snaking up the hill that led to Saint-Cloud. A fresh blooming of springtime, already bringing out naked shoulders and languid poses along the café terraces. What a shame. For the final act, Paul would have preferred a sky laden with menace. An apocalyptic firmament, torn by lightning and darkness.
>
As he drove along the boulevard, he remembered his visit to the morgue with Schiffer. How many centuries had gone by since then?
In the heights of the town, the roads were quiet and empty. The créme de la crème of leafy suburbs. A concentrated dot of vanity and wealth looking down over the Seine valley and the less desirable neighborhoods.
Paul shivered with fever, exhaustion and excitement. Brief absences punctuated his vision. Dark stars hit the back of his eyes. He was unable to fight off sleep. It was one of his weaknesses, something he had never been able to do, even when he was little and petrified, waiting for his father to come home.
His father. The image of the old man was starting to meld into that of Schiffer-the lacerations in the car seat blending into the wounds on that body covered with ash…
The sound of a horn woke him up. The light had turned green. He had fallen asleep. In a fury, he sped off and finally reached Rue des Chènes.
He turned down it, looking for number 37. The buildings were invisible, hidden behind stone walls or rows of pine trees. Insects were humming. All of nature seemed drenched with spring sun.
He found a parking space just in front of the right building: a black gate, stuck between whitewashed ramparts.
He was about to ring the bell when he noticed that the gate was ajar. An alarm started ringing in his head. This did not fit with the general atmosphere of vigilance in the neighborhood. Instinctively, Paul pulled back the Velcro strip that was keeping his gun in place.
The garden in the property was a typical one: a strip of lawn, gray trees and a gravel path. At the far end, a huge mansion house rose up with white walls and black shutters. A two-or three-car garage, with a closed swing door, stood next to it.
No dog, no servants came to meet him. Apparently, there was not the slightest movement within.
The alarm in his head started ringing louder.
He went up the three steps that led to the front door and noticed something else that was wrong. A broken window. He swallowed his saliva, then very slowly took out his 9-mm. He pushed back the pane and clambered over the sill, being careful not to crush the shards of glass on the floor. Three feet to his right, there was a hall. Silence enfolded his every move. He turned his back to the door and walked down the corridor.
To his left, a half-open door was labeled WAITING ROOM. Farther on, to his right, another door was wide open. It was presumably the surgeon's consulting room. First he noticed its walls, covered with soundproofing made of a mix of plaster and straw.
Then its floor. Photographs were scattered across it. Faces of women who were bandaged, swollen, stitched. The final confirmation of his suspicions. Someone had searched the place.
A crack could be heard from the other side of the wall.
Paul froze, his fingers gripping his gun. In a split second, he realized that he had lived only for this moment. The length of his existence did not matter. Nor did life's pleasures, hopes and disappointments. All that counted was heroic courage. He knew that the next minute would give his stay on earth its meaning. A few ounces of bravery and honor in the scales of his soul…
He was leaping toward the door when the wall exploded.
Paul was thrown to the far side of the corridor. Fire and smoke were filling it. By the time he noticed a hole no bigger than a plate, two more shots ripped through the soundproofing. The straw in the plasterboard caught fire, turning the corridor into a tunnel of flame.
Paul curled up on the floor, his neck singed by the blaze, pieces of plaster and straw tumbling down onto him.
Almost at once, silence fell. Paul looked up. In front of him, there was nothing but a heap of rubble, revealing a clear view of the surgical suite.
They were there. Three men dressed in black commando garb, strapped with cartridge belts and wearing balaclavas. Each of them was holding a SG 5040 grenade launcher. Paul had only seen them in a catalogue, but he recognized the model at once.
At their feet lay a corpse in a dressing gown. Frédéric Gruss had paid the final price for the risks of his trade.
Automatically Paul felt for his gun. But it was too late. His stomach was frothing with blood, seeping red streams into the folds of his jacket. He felt no pain he supposed this meant that he had been fatally wounded.
Sharp crunching sounds could be heard to his left. Despite his deafened ears. Paul heard with unreal clarity the feet treading down across the rubble.
A fourth man appeared in the doorway. The same black figure, hooded, gloved, but with no grenade launcher. He walked over and looked at Paul's wound. Then he pulled off his hood. His face was painted all over. The brown curves and whirls on his skin depicted the maw of a wolf. His mustache, brows and eyes were all lined with black. This had presumably been done using henna, but it looked like the makeup of a Maori warrior.
Paul recognized the man in the photograph. Azer Akarsa. He was holding a Polaroid photo: a pale oval surrounded by black hair. Anna Heymes just after her operation.
So the Wolves were now going to be able to find their prey. The hunt would go on. But without him.
The Turk knelt down. He looked straight into Paul's eyes, then softly said, "The high pressure drives them mad. Pressure wipes out pain. The last one was singing when her nose was cut off."
Paul closed his eyes. He did not really understand what was being said, but he was sure of one thing: this man knew who he was and had already been informed about Naubrel's visit to his laboratory.
In flashes, he glimpsed the wounds of the victims, the cuts on their faces. A homage to ancient stone, signed AzerAkarsa.
He felt the bubbles rise up to his lips. It was blood. When he opened his eyes again, the Wolf was pointing a.45 at his forehead.
His last thought was for Céline. And the fact that he had not had time to call her before she left for school.
PART XI
67
Roissy Charles-de-Gaulle airport. Thursday, March 21, 4:00 PM. There is only one way to conceal a gun in an airport.
Firearm enthusiasts generally think that a Glock automatic pistol, essentially made of polymers, can slip through X-rays and metal detectors. Wrong. The barrel, repeater, firing pin, trigger, clip spring and a few other parts are still made of metal. Not to mention the bullets.
There is only one way to conceal a gun in an airport. And Sema knew it.
She remembered how as she stood in front of the windows in the airport's shopping mall while waiting to board Turkish Airlines flight TK 4067 to Istanbul.
First she bought a few clothes and a travel bag-there's nothing more suspicious than a passenger with no luggage-and then some photographic equipment. A Nikon F2 camera, two lenses, one 35- to 70-mm and the other 200-mm, then a small box of tools specially for this make, plus two lead-lined bags to protect film during security checks. She carefully put them all away in her professional Promax bag, then went to the airport restroom.
Isolated in a stall, she put the barrel, firing pin and other metal parts of her Glock 21 among the screwdrivers and pliers in the toolbox. Then she slid the tungsten bullets into the leaded containers, which block X-rays and make their contents totally invisible.
Sema was amazed at her own reflexes, at her gestures and know-how. Everything was coming back to her spontaneously. Her "cultural memory," as Ackermann had put it.
At 5:00, she calmly boarded her flight, which arrived at Istanbul at the end of the day, without being bothered by customs.
In the taxi, she did not dwell on the surrounding countryside. Night had already fallen. A slight shower was casting its ghostly reflections beneath the streetlights, matching the flow of her consciousness.
All she made out were occasional details: a peddler selling ring-shaped loaves: a few young women, their faces encircled by head scarves, melding into the tiles of a bus-stop shelter: a lofty mosque, grim and somber, which seemed to be scowling over the trees: birdcages lined up on a bank side, like hives… It all murmured to her a language that was at once
familiar and distant… She turned from the window and curled up on the seat.
She chose one of the most luxurious hotels in the city center, where she merged into a welcome flow of anonymous tourists.
At 8:30, she locked her bedroom door and slumped down onto the bed, where she fell asleep with her clothes on.
***
The next day. Friday March 22, she awoke at 10:00 AM.
She turned on the television at once and looked for a French channel on the satellite network. She had to make do with TVs, the international service for the French-speaking world. At noon, after a debate about hunting in Switzerland and a documentary about national parks in Quebec , she finally got to see TFI news, broadcast the previous evening in France.
As she had expected, mention was made of the discovery of the body of Jean-Louis Schiffer in Père-Lachaise cemetery. But there was other news she had not been expecting: two other bodies had been found that same day in a mansion in the heights of Saint-Cloud.
Sema recognized the building and turned up the volume. The victims had been identified as Fredéric Gruss, a plastic surgeon and owner of the property, and a thirty-five-year-old police captain named Paul Nerteaux, from the First Division in Paris.
Sema was horrified.
The commentator went on: No explanation has yet been found for this double murder, but it may be linked to the death of Jean-Louis Schiffer. Paul Nerteaux had been investigating the murders of three women, committed over the past few months in the Little Turkey quarter. During his inquiries, he consulted the retired inspector, who specialized in the tenth arrondissement…"
Sema had never heard of this Nerteaux- a young, rather good-looking fellow with hair like a Japanese man but she could easily deduce what had happened. After pointlessly killing three women, the Wolves had finally found the right lead, which had taken them to Gruss, the surgeon who had operated on her during the summer of 2001. Meanwhile, this young cop must have followed the same path that led to the man in Saint-Cloud. He had turned up while the Wolves were questioning the surgeon. The situation had ended in a typical Turkish bloodbath.
The Empire Of The Wolves Page 31