Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

"Just watch the door.

Paul was horrified. Where had that gun sprung from? Marek was sliding off his chair and opening a drawer.

"Behind you!"

Schiffer swung and hit him full in the face with the barrel of his gun. Marek spun around full circle on his chair and landed amid the piles of handbills. The Cipher grabbed him by his shirt and stuck his gun under his throat.

"The files, you fucking Turk. Otherwise, I swear to you I won't leave you alive."

Marek was shaking. Blood was oozing out between his broken teeth, but his joyful expression remained in place. Schiffer put his gun away and dragged him to the guillotine.

Paul then drew and yelled. "Stop it!"

Schiffer raised the guillotine and placed the man's hand beneath it. "Give me the files, you shit heap."

"Stop or I’ll shoot!"

The Cipher did not even look up. He slowly pressed down the blade. The skin of the phalanges started to give way under the edge. Black blood was bubbling up in places.

Marek screamed, hut not as loudly as Paul: "Schiffer!"

He crouched with both hands on the grip of his gun, aiming it at the Cipher. He had to shoot. He had to.

The door opened violently behind him. He was thrown forward, rolled over and came to a stop at the foot of the iron desk, his neck and head at right angles.

The two bodyguards were drawing their guns when a spray of blood covered them. The screaming of a hyena filled the room.

Paul realized that Schiffer had finished his work. He got up onto one knee, pointing his gun at the Turks. "Pull back!"

The men, hypnotized by the scene in front of them, did not move. Trembling from head to foot, Paul raised his 9-mm up to their faces. "Pull back, fuckers!"

He shoved the barrel into their chests and managed to force them back over the threshold. He closed the door with his back and could at last take a look at the nightmare.

Marek was on his knees, sobbing, his hand still trapped in the guillotine. His fingers had not been completely severed, but the phalanges had been exposed, the flesh cut from the bone. Schiffer was still holding the handle, his face deformed by a sardonic grin.

Paul put his gun away. He had to control this madman. He was about to charge when the Turk pointed his good hand toward the silvery filing cabinets beside the photocopier.

"The keys!" Schiffer yelled.

Marek tried to take hold of the ring fixed to his belt. The Cipher grabbed it from him and presented the keys, one by one, before his eyes. With a nod, the Turk indicated the one that would open the door.

The old cop started rummaging through the files. Paul took the opportunity to release the wounded man. He gingerly raised the blade, which was sticky with red stains.

The Turk collapsed onto the floor, rolled up and groaned, "Hospital… hospital…"

Schiffer turned around, his eyes shining. He was holding a cardboard folder, tied up with a cloth strap. He flung it open to reveal the files and snapshots of the three women.

In a state of shock. Paul realized that they had won.

They took the emergency exit and ran to the Golf. Paul shot off at once, nearly hitting a passing car.

He kept his foot down, swerving right into Rue Lucien-Sampaix. He then suddenly realized that he was going the wrong way up a one-way street. He quickly took the next left onto Boulevard Magenta.

Reality was dancing before his eyes. Tears added to the rain on the windshield, blurring everything. He could just see the traffic lights, which were bleeding like wounds in the downpour.

He crossed one intersection without braking, then another, setting off a flurry of skidding cars and blaring horns. At the third light, he finally stopped. For a few seconds, his head spun, then he knew what he had to do.

Green.

He accelerated without releasing the clutch, stalled and swore.

He was turning the ignition key when Schiffer said, "Where are you going?"

"To the station," he panted. "I'm arresting you, you bastard."

From the far side of the square, the Gare de L'Est shone like a cruise ship. He was about to pull off when the Cipher shifted his leg over to the other side and stamped on the accelerator.

"Fucking hell…"

Schiffer grabbed the wheel and spun it to the right. They shot down Rue Sibour, a side road that ran beside Saint-Laurent Church. Still using one hand, he turned again, forcing the Golf to bounce over the separations of the cycle path and come to a halt against the pavement.

Paul took the wheel in his ribs. He hiccupped, coughed, then melted into a burning sweat. He clenched his fist and turned toward his passenger, ready to smash his jaws.

The man's pallid face dissuaded him. Jean-Louis Schiffer looked twenty years older once more. His entire profile was melting into his flabby neck. His eyes were so glassy they looked transparent. A real death's-head.

"You're a lunatic," he panted in disgust. "A fucking sicko. You can count on me to make the charge sheet look good. You're going to rot in prison, you fucking torturer!"

Without answering, Schiffer found an old map of Paris in the glove compartment and tore off a few pages to wipe the blood from his jacket. His blotchy hands were trembling. His words hissed from between his teeth: "There's no other way to deal with the fuckers."

"We're police officers."

"Marius is a shit. He manipulates whores over here by having their kids mutilated back home. An arm, a leg. It calms down the Turkish mothers."

"We represent the law" Paul was getting his breath and his poise back. His eyesight was also returning, showing him the flat black wall of the church, the gargoyles over their heads, standing like gallows, and the rain still assailing the night.

Schiffer threw away the reddened pages, opened the window and spat. “It's too late to get rid of me."

"If you think I'm scared to answer for what I've done… then you've got another thing coming. You're headed behind bars, even if I have to share your cell."

Schiffer raised a hand to switch on the roof light, then opened the folder on his lap. He removed the papers concerning the three women: they were loose laser-printed leaves, with a Polaroid photo stapled to each one. He tore off the photos and placed them on the dashboard, as if they were playing cards. He cleared his throat again and asked, "What do you see?"

Paul did not move. The light from the streetlamps was making the pictures glisten above the steering wheel. For two months, he had been looking for these faces. He had pictured them, drawn them, wiped them out again and started all over again a hundred times… Now that they were in front of him, he felt as nervous as a virgin.

Schiffer took him by the scruff of the neck and forced him to look. "What do you see?" he said huskily. Paul opened his eyes wide. Three women with gentle features, slightly stunned by the flashlight, were staring at him. Their broad faces were rimmed by red hair.

"Do you notice anything?" the Cipher insisted.

Paul hesitated. "They look alike, don't they?"

Schiffer burst out laughing and repeated, " 'They look alike'? You mean they're carbon copies!"

Paul turned toward him. He was unsure if he had understood. "And so?"

"So you were right. The killer is after a particular face. A face that he both adores and detests, which obsesses him and provokes contradictory impulses. As for his motive, anything is possible. But we now know that he's pursuing an objective."

Paul's anger turned into a feeling of victory. So his intuitions had been right: they were illegal immigrants, with identical looks. Was he also right about the ancient statues?

Schiffer continued: "These photos are a huge step forward, take my word for it. Because they also provide us with a vital piece of information. The killer knows this neighborhood like the back of his hand."