Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

The group of inspectors outside the door went on ringing the bell, talking very loudly, knocking on the door more violently. They announced they were going to shoot through the lock. One of them took out a revolver …

Daquin and the half-back dived out of the elevator together, the forward covering them. The two Iranians turned round, then collapsed after a leg tackle.

‘Perfect tackle,’ said the forward, as though he was at a training session.

Daquin pulled up his Iranian roughly, twisting one arm behind his back, ‘Police. Open that door. Be quick.’

It was true that he looked like the identikit portrait. But so did the other one.

6 a.m.

Rue des Vinaigriers, a rather dilapidated building. Inspector Danièle Ribout, an energetic red-haired little woman, went up the stairs in silence with her chum Inspector Saval. They’d been a team for a long time, they didn’t need to speak in order to understand each other. She signalled to him: as usual. He nodded in agreement. They reached the third floor. A solid door equipped with a spyhole. Saval stood against the wall at the side. Danièle Ribout stood just opposite the spyhole and rang the bell twice, as though in a hurry … The sound of bare feet could be heard behind the door. She pretended to be upset and feeble.

‘Help me, please. I’m on my own, I live just above and there’s a leak, I don’t know what to do.’

The door opened a little. The two inspectors rushed into the apartment, their revolvers in their hands.

‘Police. Don’t move.’

Each time the same feeling of satisfaction. Revenge on the machos.

*

The door was open. The entrance hall was invaded by cops. Four inspectors took charge of the two Iranians. Daquin indicated the two doors and the interior staircase which opened into the entrance hall.

‘Hurry. Three groups. Find Kashguri in particular.’

Not many people left in the huge drawing-room. At a gaming-table five men were feverishly collecting the crumpled banknotes that littered the surface. Three pretty young women tried to escape down the corridor. No use. And Bertrand was asleep on a sofa. Two Asian girls in black dresses and lace aprons were standing by a half-empty buffet. Terrified. They were going to start crying any moment.

‘Police. Nobody move.’

Daquin and three inspectors went through the smoking-room. Nobody. At the double, into the first bedroom. There, men and women, six in all, dressing in a hurry. Clothes scattered about, make-up ruined, half-clad bodies, surprise, anxiety, nobody really at their best. The cops laughed openly. But still no Kashguri. All the rest of the apartment was deserted.

6.38 a.m.

‘Bosphorus 2 to Bosphorus 1: The unloading’s almost complete.’

6.41 a.m.

Attali was startled: he’d recognized the Turk who’d just taken the wheel of one of the trucks. Another Turk got in beside him and the trucks drove off.

‘We’ve got to follow them.’ Attali said it almost instinctively.

Near panic starting in the yard. The Superintendent co-ordinated by radio the smoothly conducted arrest of the Turks who were dispersing over the area. Intercept them as far as possible from Sobesky’s place.

Attali left the building, followed the pavement, turned left two streets further on and found an unmarked police car with a colleague listening to the radio. Sat beside him.

‘Step on it, we may be lucky enough to meet the trucks again.’

7.30a.m.

‘Bosphorus 2 to Bosphorus 1: We’ve rejoined the trucks at porte de la Chapelle. We’re starting to follow them.’

7.17 a.m.

‘Bosphorus 2 to Bosphorus 1: One of the trucks is going via Gennevilliers, towards Euroriencar, presumably. The other’s continuing on the A86, we’re following it.’

7.20 a.m.

‘Bosphorus 2 to Boshorus 1: The truck’s going via Nanterre.’

7.28 a.m.

‘Bosphorus 2 to Bosphorus 1: The truck’s gone into a garage forecourt in rue de l’Avenir, Nanterre. We await instructions.’

7.43 a.m.

The Drugs Squad chief walked past the Réveil Social café. Attali had been sitting by the window, he paid for his coffee with cream and went out. They discussed things as they walked up the street.

‘I’ve sent half the men I had at Gennevilliers to Nanterre. What do you think about that?’

‘I’ve really no idea.’

They walked alongside the garage. The front looked rather dirty, vaguely dilapidated, with a passage alongside, and behind it a huge yard where old broken-down cars could be seen. They went on until they reached the police car-parked at the other end of the street. A young inspector sent off on reconnaissance. Came back.

‘I got in without difficulty. The truck’s in the yard, the cabin’s tipped up and the garage owner, an old grandfather, is tinkering with the engine. I didn’t see what he was doing. The two Turks are sitting a little further off in the yard, smoking. I made an appointment for tomorrow to bring in my car for repair. No sign of any nerves.’

‘That’s rather depressing.’

‘We have to go and see all the same. Three inspectors along with Attali. Check the identities. If the Turks are on our list, arrest them. And take a good look at the truck. The rest of our men will come closer ready to intervene as support. Keep your revolvers and walkie-talkies ready, you never know.’

The inspectors came in through the passage and approached the old man just as he was unscrewing a rectangular metal plate.

‘Police, we’ve got a few questions to ask you.’

The old man threw the metal plate at Attali’s head, the inspector fell down, the Turks jumped to their feet and fired through their jackets. Attali, who’d been hit in one arm, dragged himself over to the shelter of the truck wheels. Shooting went on round him.

Walkie-talkie: ‘Everyone to the garage, weapons at the ready.’

At this precise moment the Morora company lorries arrived slowly and began to park in the garage forecourt, followed by fifteen or so inspectors at the double. Indescribable chaos.

When the chief finally got the operations under control all the lorry drivers, innocent Moroccans who were visibly upset, were handcuffed and parked in the garage. The Turks and the elderly garage-owner had disappeared. Attali got back on his feet, clutching his left arm, which was covered in blood. In front of him the reservoir of the dismantled truck: a gaping hole, access to the false bottom and there, neatly stacked, packets of white powder.

8.01 a.m.

‘Bosphorus 1 to all Bosphorus groups: We’ve found the white stuff. Lots of it. Green light to all groups.’

‘Sunday saw publication of the first results in the second round of elections to the Iranian Parliament, in which the Party of the Islamic Republic, led by the Ayatollah Béhechti, is certain to be victorious …’

Libération , 13 May 1980

Thursday 15 May, 7 p.m. Rue du Château-d’Eau

For two days student demonstrations had been going on near rue Jussieu. Heavy police presence round the Faculté. Rumour had it that there had been one death. The area round the Gare de l’Est was much calmer. Rue du Château-d’Eau was almost deserted when a motorcycle rode into it at high speed. Two men wearing crash helmets. They stopped, with the engine still running, outside the Association of Lighting Technicians, full of people at this hour of the day. The pillion passenger dismounted, reached into the carrier at the back and took out a sub-machine-gun. He stood up and fired a volley towards the top of the façade, which collapsed with a deafening noise of breaking glass. Everyone inside threw themselves flat on the floor. The man with the gun raised the visor of his helmet and shouted two or three sentences in Turkish. Another volley. Then he jumped onto the pillion seat of the motorcycle which rode off and disappeared. The police would arrive at the spot a few minutes later.