Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

Friday 16 May, 8 a.m. Passage du Désir

Daquin was in a very bad mood. He’d been at a standstill for more than a month now. True, he’d brought off a splendid coup, the entire network had collapsed, along with its connections in France and a few financial links. But Kashguri had vanished without trace. The investigation had proved that he owned a Renault 5, kept in the second car-park at his apartment block, which led to Boulevard Suchet, and he had probably used it to get away, at about 4 a.m. on the morning of 4 April. Was he going to supervise the arrival of the delivery? The registration number of the car had been circulated to all police forces without success. The man had purely and simply disappeared during the night of 3–4 April. Oumourzarov, who had been present at Kashgour’s soirée, had been released the same afternoon. Almost with apologies. Nothing had been proved against Sobesky. The murder of the Thai girl had still not been solved. And, last night, Soleiman hadn’t returned to sleep with him. He missed him, even if he found it hard to admit the fact.

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, 9a.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.