Dominique Manotti: Rough Trade

‘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, 7p.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 your 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, 9a.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.

‘Monsieur Keyder?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Superintendent Daquin would like to make your acquaintance and asks if you would kindly go to his office.’

‘After you.’

Third floor. He recognized the glass door. As though it were yesterday. He fingered his upper lip. Felt his moustache, now growing again, to give himself confidence. The young cop left him. Daquin, seated behind his desk, watched him come in. He doesn’t belong to me any more. It’s still my jacket. But he’s got his moustache back already.

Soleiman sat down. Daquin took a file from a drawer in his desk and pushed it over to him.

‘That’s the original of the file about you kept by the Turkish police. If you want to go back to your own country one day, you can do so more or less safely.’

Soleiman didn’t dare believe it. Placed his hand on the file.

‘How did you manage it?’

‘That’s my business.’

Soleiman opened the file and leafed through it. A kind of mist before his eyes.

‘There aren’t any photos. I haven’t kept them as a souvenir, there never were any.’

Soleiman was struck dumb. Got up, took the file, stuffed it inside his jacket and left almost at a run.

Wednesday 28 May, noon. Parish of Saint-Bernard

Press conference. The Committee officially announced the success of their action and the beginning of legalized status for the Sentier workers. The Trades Union Confederations had sent representatives, there were many journalists from the newspapers, the radio and the television. Soleiman presided from the platform. He was the hero of the day. The file, that was still there between his jacket and his shirt, gave him a sensation of liberty.