Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

"What about the ancient masks?" he went on.

"Does that interest you, too?" Paul was increasingly skeptical.

"In a situation like this," Schiffer replied, "everything interests me. One of the Wolves might have an obsession, a particular kink. Where are you at now?"

"Nowhere. And I haven't had the time to progress. I don't even know if my boys have found any more sites, and-"

He butted in: "Report back in two hours. And find a way to recharge your battery" He hung up. In a flash, Nerteaux's figure passed before his eyes. His Indian hair, his eyes like grilled almonds. A cop whose features were too fine, who did not shave and who dressed in black to make himself look tough. But also a born policeman, despite his naiveté.

He realized that he liked the kid. He even wondered if he was not starting to go soft, if he had been right to include Nerteaux in what had now become his investigation. Had he told him too much?

He left the phone booth and hailed a cab. No. He had kept back his trump card.

He had not told Nerteaux the most important point.

He climbed into the car and gave the address of police headquarters, Quai des Orfèvres.

He now knew who the target was, and why the Grey Wolves were looking for her. Because he had spent the last ten months looking for her, too.

A rectangular box of white wood, seventy centimeters long by thirty deep, struck with the red wax seal of the French Republic. Schiffer blew the dust off the lid and said to himself that the only remaining proof of Sema Golkalp's existence lay in this baby's coffin.

He took out his Swiss Army knife, slid its finest blade beneath the seal, snapped the red blotch and lifted the top. A musty smell rose to his nostrils. As soon as he saw the garments, he just knew that they would contain something for him. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. He was in the basement of the Palais de Justice, in the booth with a filthy curtain where freed prisoners could discreetly check that all their personal effects had been returned to them.

The ideal place to dig up a corpse.

First he found a white coat and a mobcap of creased paper-the standard uniform of Gurdilek's workers. Then her day clothes: a long pale green skirt, a crocheted raspberry red cardigan, a slate blue blouse with a rounded collar. Cheap rags from the cheapest of stores.

The clothes were Western, but their cut, colors and above all context gave them the look of Turkish peasant girls, who still wore baggy mauve trousers and bright yellow or green blouses. He felt sinister desire rising inside him, excited by the idea of stripping, humiliation and servile poverty. The pale body he pictured beneath these clothes bit into his nerves.

He looked at the underwear. A small, flesh-colored bra and a pair of fluffy, black, threadbare panties, whose shiny appearance had been caused by wear. They suggested the figure of an adolescent. He thought of the three corpses: wide hips, heavy breasts. This woman had not just altered her face-she had sculpted her body down to the bone.

He continued his search. Worn-out shoes, laddered tights, a shabby fleece coat. The pockets had been emptied. He felt down to the bottom of the box in the hope that their contents had been placed there together. A plastic bag confirmed his hopes. It contained a set of keys, a book of metro tickets, beauty products imported from Istanbul…

He examined the keys. They always fascinated him. He knew each and every type: flat ones, crosscut ones, lever keys, or those with active branches. He was also an expert when it came to locks. Their mechanisms reminded him of the cogs inside the human body, which he loved to violate, torture, control.

He looked at the two keys on the ring. One opened a grooved lock-probably of some home, hotel room or derelict apartment, long occupied by members of the Turkish community. The second was flat and presumably was for the upper lock on the same door.

No interest.

Schiffer stifled a curse. His search had turned up nothing. These objects and garments simply sketched the portrait of an anonymous working girl. Too anonymous, for that matter. It stank of fancy dress, of a caricature.

He was sure that Sema Gokalp had a hiding place somewhere. When you are capable of changing your face, losing twenty kilos, voluntarily adopting the underground existence of a slave, then you must have a place to fall back on.

Schiffer remembered what Beauvanier had said: We found her passport sewn into her skirt. With his fingers, he felt each garment. He lingered over the lining of the coat. Along the lower hem, his fingers came to rest on a lump. A hard, long, jagged protuberance.

He tore open the material and shook it. A key dropped into his hand. A piped key stamped with the number 4C 32.

He thought: It must be a luggage locker.

"No, not baggage check. They use codes now."

Cyril Brouillard was a brilliant locksmith. Jean-Louis Schiffer had found his wallet on the site of a break-in, where a supposedly impregnable safe had been opened with the skill of a virtuoso. He had then gone to the address of the owner of the ID papers and come across a young, shortsighted man with shaggy fair hair. When Schiffer gave him back his documents, he told him that he ought to learn to be less absentminded. He had then covered up the break-in in exchange for an original Bellmer lithograph.

"So what is it?"

"Self-storage."

"What?"

"A furniture warehouse."

Since that night. Brouillard had done whatever Schiffer asked. Opening doors for unauthorized searches, turning locks to catch crooks red-handed, safe-breaking to obtain compromising documents. This thief was a perfect alternative to having a warrant.

He lived above his shop on Rue de Lancry -a locksmith's workshop that he had bought, thanks to his nocturnal activities.

"Can you tell me more?"

Brouillard examined the key beneath his desk lamp. He was unlike any other burglar. As soon as he approached a lock, a miracle happened. A vibration. A touch. A mystery that unfolded. Schiffer never wearied of watching him at work. It was like observing some hidden force of nature. The very essence of an inexplicable gift.

"At Surger's," the crook whispered. "You can see the letters engraved on the side."

"Do you know the place?"

"Of course. I've got several cubbyholes there myself. It's open day and night."

"Where?"

"Chateau-Landon. On Rue Girard."

Schiffer swallowed his spit. It seemed on fire. "Do you have the entry code?"

"AB 756. Your key is numbered 4C 32. On level four. The floor with the miniboxes." Cyril Brouillard looked up, pushing back his glasses. His voice waxed lyrical. "The floor with the little treasure troves.

The building looked out over the tracks of Gare de l'Est, as imposing and solitary as a cargo ship coming into port. With its four floors, it looked as though it had been renovated and freshly painted. An island of cleanliness harboring goods in transit.

Schiffer went through the first gate and crossed the garage.

It was 2:00 AM, and he was expecting to see a night watchman appear, wearing a black outfit marked SURGER, flanked by an aggressive dog and carrying an electric prod.

But no one came.

He entered the code and opened the glass door. At the far end of the hall, which was plunged in a strange red glow, he saw a concrete corridor, punctuated by a series of metal doors. Every twenty yards, perpendicular alleyways crossed the main axis, creating the impression of a labyrinth of compartments.

He walked straight on, beneath the safety lights, until he reached a staircase at the far end. Each of his steps made an almost imperceptible dull thud on the pearl gray cement. Schiffer savored the silence, the solitude, the mingled tension of power and illegal entry.