Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

He had immersed himself in the archives and had made no bones about calling the departmental head to help him, even in the middle of the night. The search had turned up over six hundred files, just for the Paris region, over the past five years. How to wade through such a list? At 2:00 AM, he had phoned Jean-Philippe Arnaud, the president of the Association of Plastic Surgeons, to ask his advice. In reply, the sleepy voice had provided three names of virtuosos with iffy reputations, who might have agreed to carry out such an operation without asking too many questions.

Before hanging up, Paul had questioned him about other "scalpels" among the "respectable" surgeons. After some prompting, Arnaud had added seven more names, insisting that they were recognized practitioners and would never have gotten involved in such a business. Paul cut short his comments and thanked him.

So at 3:00 in the morning, he had had a list of ten names. For him, the night was still young…

He stopped at the far side of the Trocadéro, between the two museums, looking over the Seine. Sitting on the steps, he let himself be seduced by the beauty of the view. The gardens were laid out in different levels, with fountains and statues forming a dreamlike landscape. The Pont d'Iéna added touches of light to the river, as far as the Eiffel Tower on the opposite bank, which looked like a huge cast-iron paperweight. All around, the dark buildings of the Champ-de-Mars slept in religious silence. Overall, the scene was reminiscent of a hidden Tibetan kingdom, a marvelous Xanadu at the end of the known world.

Paul went through what he had learned over the previous few hours.

To begin with, he had tried phoning up the surgeons. But his very first call proved to him that he would not find out anything that way: the man had hung up on him. In any case, the vital point was to show them the pictures of the victims and the one of Anna Heymes that Schiffer had left for him at the Louis-Blanc station.

So he went to see the first of the "shifty" surgeons on Rue ClémentMarot. According to Arnaud, this millionaire from Colombia was suspected of having operated on the godfathers of Medellin and Cali. He was extremely renowned for his skill. It was said that he could operate using either his right or his left hand.

Despite the late hour, the artist in question had not gone to bed -or rather, was not asleep. Paul had disturbed him in full action, in the scented shadows of a vast penthouse. He had not seen his features clearly but had grasped that the faces on the photos Paul showed him rang no bells.

The second address was of a clinic on Rue Washington, on the other side of the Champs-Elysées.

Paul had grabbed the surgeon just before an emergency operation on a victim of first-degree burns. He had played his part, producing his card, sketching out details of the case, placing the pictures on the table. The man had not even lowered his surgical mask. He had just shaken his head before leaving to take care of that charred flesh. Paul remembered what Arnaud had said: this character artificially cultivated human skin. It was said that, after burning, he could modify people's fingerprints, thus completing a new identity for criminals on the run..

Paul had gone once more into the night.

He had found the third surgeon fast asleep in his apartment on Avenue d'Eylau, near the Trocadéro. He was another celebrity one who was supposed to have operated on the greatest stars of show business. But no one knew who or what on. It was also rumored that he had altered his own appearance after some problems with the police in his native South Africa.

He had received Paul warily his hands jammed in his dressing-gown pockets like revolvers. After looking at the photos in disgust, he had uttered a categorical "never seen them before."

Paul had emerged from these three visits as though he had been swimming underwater. At 6:00 in the morning, he had suddenly felt in need of something familiar, something he knew. So he called up the only family that he had-or what was left of it. But the call had not comforted him. Reyna was still on another planet. And Céline, fast asleep. was light-years away from his world-a world in which killers put living rodents in women's vaginas, where cops cut off people's fingers to get information…

Paul raised his eyes. Dawn was stretching up in the sky, like the curve of a distant star. A broad mauve strip was gradually turning pink and, at the top of its arc, was distilling a hint of sulfur, already dotted with white, sparkling particles. The mica of day…

He stood up and retraced his steps. When he reached Place du Trocadero, the cafés were opening their doors. He spotted the lights of Le Malakoff, where he had arranged to meet his two assistants, Naubrel and Matkowska.

The previous day, he had told them to drop the business about high-pressure chambers and instead obtain as much information as they could about the Grey Wolves and their political history. While Paul was focusing on the target, he also wanted to know something about the hunters.

In the doorway of the café, he paused for a moment and considered another problem that was bugging him-the disappearance of Jean-Louis Schiffer. He had heard nothing from him since that phone call at 11:00 last night. Paul had tried contacting him several times, in vain. Instead of fearing the worst, he sensed that the bastard had double-crossed him. Now that he was free again, Schiffer had presumably found a hot lead and was following it up all on his own.

Controlling his anger, Paul mentally gave him one more chance. He had until 10:00 to show a sign of life. After that, Paul would put out an arrest warrant. He had nothing more to lose.

He pushed open the door of the bar, feeling his mood grow ever darker.

The two lieutenants were already ensconced in a corner. Before joining them, Paul rubbed his face with his hands and tried to flatten out his parka. He wanted to look like what he in fact was their superior-and not some tramp blown in from the night.

He crossed the overbright, over-renovated room, where everything looked fake, from the chandeliers to the backs of the chairs. A trashy bar, used to the vapors of alcohol and drunken chatter, but at this hour still empty.

Paul sat down in front of the officers, pleased to see their jovial faces again. Naubrel and Matkowska were not great investigators, but they still had the enthusiasm of youth. They made Paul think of the carefree, light existence that he had never had.

They started by assailing him with details of their nocturnal quest. After ordering a coffee, Paul interrupted them. "All right, boys. Get to the point."

They exchanged a knowing glance, then Naubrel opened a thick file of photocopies.

"The Grey Wolves are basically a political organization. From what we've found out, lefty ideas were dominant in Turkey in the 1960s. Just like in France. So the extreme right wing rose up in reaction. A man called Alpaslan Türkes, an army colonel who used to have links with the Nazis, set up a party: the Nationalist Action Parry. He and his men stood as a bastion against the red peril."

Matkowska took over. "As well as the official group, ideological clubs were started, aimed at recruiting the young. First in the universities, then in the countryside. The kids that joined them called themselves Idealists or else Grey Wolves." He glanced at his notes. "Or Bozkurt in Turkish."

This all corresponded to what Schiffer had told him.

In the 1970s," Naubrel went on, "the communism versus fascism war increased in tension. The Grey Wolves armed themselves. In some parts of Anatolia, training camps were opened. The young Idealists were indoctrinated there, trained in the martial arts and taught how to use guns. Illiterate peasants were transformed into armed, trained, fanatical killers."