Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

"You mean you-"

"No, she underwent an experiment."

"What kind of experiment?"

Silence.

Schiffer repeated, "What kind of experiment?"

"Psychic conditioning. A new technique."

So that was it. Psychic manipulation had always fascinated Charlier.

Infiltrating terrorists' minds, conditioning consciousnesses, that kind of crap… Sema Gokalp was a guinea pig, the subject of some crazy experimentation.

Schiffer thought over the absurdity of the situation. Charlier had not chosen Sema Gokalp; she had quite simply fallen into his hands. He did not know that she had altered her appearance. Nor did he know who she really was.

He stood back up, charged with electricity from head to foot.

"Why her?"

"Because of her mental state. Sema was suffering from partial amnesia, which made her all the more suitable to undergo the experiment." Schiffer leaned forward, as though he had problems hearing. "Are you telling me that you brainwashed her?"

"Yes, the program did use such treatment."

Schiffer banged his fists on the table. "Fucking idiots. That was the last memory you should have wiped out! She had things to tell me!" Charlier raised an eyebrow "I don't understand what you're going on about. How could that girl have anything of importance to reveal? She just saw a few Turks making off with a woman, that's all."

Onward again. "She's got some information about the killers," Schiffer said at last while prowling around the room like a caged beast. "I also think she knows the identity of the target."

"The target?"

"The woman the Wolves are looking for. And have not yet found.”

“Does it really matter?"

"Three murders, Charlier. They're starting to mount up, aren't they? And they'll go on killing until they find her."

"And you want to hand her over?"

The movement of Charlier's shoulders almost split the stitches in his shirt. Finally he said. "Anyway. I can no longer help you."

"Why?"

"She's escaped."

"You're kidding!"

"Does it look as if I am?"

Schiffer did not know whether to laugh or scream. He sat back down, grabbing the paper knife that Charlier had just dropped. "Bloody incompetent, as usual. What happened?"

"The aim of our experiment was to alter a personality completely. Something never attempted before. We managed to transform her into a middle-class Frenchwoman, married to a top civil servant. A simple Turkish girl, can you imagine that? There's now no limit to conditioning. We're going to-"

"I don't give a shit about your experiment." Schiffer said, butting in. "Just tell me how she got away"

The commissioner frowned. "Over the past few weeks, she'd been having attacks of forgetfulness, or hallucinations. The new personality we had given her was starting to break up. We were about to hospitalize her when she split."

"When was that?"

"Yesterday. Tuesday morning."

Unbelievable. The target of the Grey Wolves was back on the streets. Neither Turkish nor French. With a mind like a sieve. From the bottom of this darkness, a light shone.

"So her original memory is coming back?"

"We don't know But she certainly didn't trust us anymore."

"Where are your men at?"

"Nowhere. They're searching Paris. And still haven't found her."

It was the moment to play his ace. He stuck the paper knife into the wooden desk. "If her memory's returning, then she'll react like a Turk. And that's my area. I stand the best chance of copping her."

The commissioner's expression changed.

Schiffer pressed his point: "She's a Turk, Charlier. A special sort of game. You need someone who knows that universe and who will act discreetly"

He could follow the idea that was making its way through the giant's brain. He stepped back, as though taking aim. "Here's the deal: You give me twenty-four hours. If I find her, then I'll hand her over to you. But I get to question her first."

Another pregnant silence. Finally, Charlier opened a drawer and produced a pile of documents.

"Her file. She's now called Anna Heymes and-"

In a single bound, Schiffer grabbed the cardboard folder and opened it. He flicked through the typed pages, the medical reports, and found the target's new face. Exactly as Hirsch had described her. There was not a single feature in common with the redhead the killers were tracking. From that point of view, Sema Gokalp had nothing more to fear.

The antiterrorist warrior went on: "The neurologist treating her is named Eric Ackermann, and-"

"I couldn't care less about her new personality or who did what to her. She's going to return to her origins. That's what matters. What do you know about Sema Gokalp? About the Turk she used to be?"

Charlier wriggled in his chair. Veins were beating at the base of his neck, just above his shirt collar. "Nothing at all! She was just a working girl with amnesia-"

"Did you keep her clothes, her papers, her personal effects?"

Charlier swept the question away with his hand. "We destroyed everything. At least I think we did."

"Check."

"They were just scruffy rags. Nothing of any interest for-”

“Just pick up your fucking phone and check."

Charlier grabbed the receiver. After two calls, he groaned. "I don't believe it. Those useless asses forgot to destroy her clothes."

"Where are they?"

"In a deposit box at headquarters. Beauvanier had given her new threads. And the boys at Louis-Blanc sent the old ones to the prefecture. No one thought of going to fetch them. So much for an elite brigade…”

“What name were they registered under?"

"Sema Gokalp, of course. When we fuck up, we don't do things halfway." He picked up another form, this one blank, which he started to fill in. An open sesame to the prefecture.

Like two predators sharing the same prey, Schiffer thought.

The commissioner signed the paper then slid it across the desk.

"You've got all night. If you fuck up. I'll call in the Special Branch." Schiffer pocketed the pass and stood up. "You won't saw off the branch. We're sitting on the same one."

It was time to come clean with the kid.

Jean-Louis Schiffer went back up Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and turned onto Avenue Matignon, where he spotted a phone booth just by the traffic circle on the Champs-Elysées. His cell phone's battery was dead again.

After just one ring, Paul Nerteaux yelled, "Jesus Christ, Schiffer. Where the hell are you?" His voice was trembling with rage.

"In the eighth arrondissement, with the bigwigs."

"It's nearly midnight. What on earth have you been doing? I waited for hours at Sancak's and-"

"A crazy story but I've got plenty of news."

"Are you in a phone booth? I'll find another one and call you back. My battery's dead."

Schiffer hung up, wondering if the police might one day miss the arrest of the century because of a lack of lithium. He half opened the door of the booth-he was stifling himself with his own mint stench.

The night was mild, with no rain or breeze. He observed the passersby, the shopping malls, the gray stone buildings. An existence of luxury, of comfort that had eluded him but was perhaps now back in his reach…

The phone rang. He did not give Nerteaux time to speak.

"Where are you at with your patrols?"

"I've got two vans and three cars," he replied proudly. "Seventy patrolmen and officers from the BAC are combing the area. I've declared the entire neighborhood an emergency zone. I've given the Identikit portraits to all the commissariats and police units in the tenth. All the homes, bars and associations have been searched. There isn't a single person in Little Turkey who hasn't gotten the picture. I'm about to go to the police station in the second and-"