Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

The bodyguard hesitated, then raised his hand to knock at the door. Schiffer stopped rapidly and opened the handle himself. On going in, he barked at Paul over his shoulder: "Not a word from you during the questioning."

Paul wanted to answer back appropriately, but he did not have time. This interview was going to be his initiation.

"Salaam aleikum, Marius!"

The man slumped in his desk chair nearly toppled backward. "Schiffer? Aleikum salaam, my brother!"

Marek Cesiuz was already back in control. He stood up, grinning broadly, and walked around his iron desk. He was wearing a red-and gold football shirt, the colors of Galatasaray. His scrawny body floated in the satiny material like a banner on the terraces. It was impossible to guess how old he was. His reddish gray hair looked like still-smoldering cinders. His features were frozen into an expression of cold joy, which gave him the sinister look of an ancient child. His coppery skin accentuated his robotic face and melded into his rusty hair.

The two men embraced effusively. The windowless office, with its piles of papers, was saturated with smoke. Cigarette burns dotted the carpet. All the decorations seemed to date back to the 1970s: silvery cabinets and round lamps, tom-tom stools, lamps suspended like mobiles, conic lampshades.

In a corner, Paul noticed a printing press, a photocopier, two binding machines and a guillotine. The perfect outfit for a political militant.

Marius's hearty laughter drowned out the distant din of the music. "How long has it been?"

"At my age, you stop counting."

"We missed you, my brother. We really did."

The Turk spoke French without an accent. They embraced once more. Their playacting had reached its peak.

"And the children?" Schiffer asked in a bantering tone.

"They grow up too quickly. I don't take my eyes off them for fear of missing something!"

"And my little Ali?"

Marius aimed a punch at Schiffer's belly, which stopped well before contact. "He's the quickest of them all!"

Suddenly, he seemed to notice Paul. His eyes froze over, while his lips remained smiling. "So you're back at work?" he asked the Cipher.

"Just for a simple consultation. Let me introduce you to Captain Paul Nerteaux."

Paul hesitated, then put out his hand, but no one took it. He contemplated his empty fingers in that overbright room, full of fake smiles and the smell of cigarettes. Then, to keep up appearances, he took a look at a pile of handbills lying to his right.

"Still writing your Bolshevik stuff?" Schiffer asked.

"It's ideals that keep us alive."

The officer grabbed a sheet and translated out loud: ".. When the workers control the means of production.." He laughed. "I thought you'd grown out of this sort of crap."

"Schiffer, my friend, it's the sort of crap that will outlive us.”

“Only if someone keeps reading it."

Marius had recovered his complete smile, lips and eyes in unison. "Some tea, my friends?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a large thermos flask and filled three earthenware cups. Applause was making the walls tremble.

"Aren't you fed up with those creeps?"

Marius sat back down behind his desk, his chair against the wall. He slowly raised his cup to his mouth. "Music is the food of peace, my brother. Even this sort. In my country the kids listen to the same bands as they do here. Rock will unite the future generations. It will wipe out what's left of our differences."

Schiffer pressed down the guillotine and raised his cup. "To hard rock!"

The way Marius's form shifted oddly beneath his shirt seemed to express both amusement and weariness. "Schiffer, you didn't come all this way, and bring this kid with you, to talk about music or our old ideals."

The Cipher sat down on the edge of the desk, sized up the Turk for a moment, then removed the horrifying photos from the envelope. Their disfigured faces scattered over the first drafts of posters.

Marius drew back into his chair. "What on earth are you showing me, my brother?"

"Three women. Three bodies discovered in your precinct. Between November and now. My colleague thinks they're illegal immigrants. So I thought you might be able to tell us more." His tone had changed. It sounded as if Schiffer had stitched each syllable with barbed wire.

"That's news to me," Marius said.

Schiffer smiled knowingly. "The whole neighborhood must have been talking about little else ever since the first murder. So tell us what you know and we'll all save a lot of time."

The dealer absentmindedly picked up a packet of Karos. the local filterless cigarettes, and took one out. "My brother, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Schiffer stood back up and adopted the tone of a fairground barker: "Marek Cesiuz, emperor of falsity and lies, king of smuggling and con tricks…" He broke into a raucous laugh. Which was also a roar, then stared down darkly at him. "Talk, you piece of shit. before I lose my temper."

The Turk's face went as hard as glass. Sitting up straight in his chair, he lit his cigarette. "You've got nothing, Schiffer. No warrant, no witnesses, no clues. You've just come here to ask for advice that I can't give you. I'm sorry" He pointed at the door with a long flurry of gray smoke. "Now, you'd better leave with your friend and put an end to this misunderstanding."

Schiffer planted his heels in the scorched carpet and faced the desk. "The only misunderstanding here is you. Everything's fake in this fucking office. These stupid handbills are fake. You don't give a shit about the last of the Commies rotting in prison in your country"

"You-"

"Your passion for music is fake. A Muslim like you thinks that rock is the work of the devil. If you could burn down your own concert hail, you wouldn't hesitate for a moment."

Marius motioned to get up, but Schiffer pushed him back.

"Your cupboards are full of fake paperwork. You're no fucking workaholic. All this is run on smuggling and slavery!" He went over to the guillotine and stroked its blade. "You know as well as I do that this thing is just for cutting up your strips of acid into tabs." He opened his arms, in a theatrical gesture, and addressed the grimy ceiling: "O my brother, tell me about these women before I turn your office over and find enough to pack you off to Fleury for years!"

Marek Cesiuz kept glancing at the door.

The Cipher stood behind him and leaned over his ear. "Three women, Marius." He massaged his shoulders. "In less than four months. Tortured, disfigured, thrown onto the street. You brought them to France. Now give me their files, and we'll go."

The distant pulses of the concert filled the silence.

Then, sounding like the Turk's heart beating inside his carcass, Marek murmured, "I don't have them anymore."

"Why not?"

"I destroyed them. When the girls died, I threw away their records. No traces, no problems."

Paul was starting to get worried, but he appreciated this revelation. For the first time, the object of his inquiries had become real. The three victims had existed as women. They started to take form before his eyes. The corpses had become illegal immigrants.

Schiffer stood back in front of the desk. "Watch the door," he said to Paul, without looking back at him.

"Wh-what?"

"The door."

Before Paul had time to react, Schiffer had leapt onto Marek and crushed his face against a corner of the desk. The nose bone snapped like a nut in a cracker. The cop lifted up Marek's head in a shower of blood and pushed it against the wall. "Give me the files, you cunt."

Paul rushed over, but Schiffer shoved him away. He was about to take out his gun when the dark maw of a Manhurin.44 Magnum froze him. The Cipher had dropped the Turk and drawn at the same instant.