Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

Matkowska took out another wad of photocopies. "In 1977, the Grey Wolves went into action: planting bombs, machine-gunning public edifices, assassinating public figures… The Communists hit back. A real civil war broke out. At the end of the 1970s, between fifteen and twenty people were being killed every day in Turkey. It was pure and simple terror."

Paul butted in. "But what about the government? The police? The army?"

Naubrel smiled. "That's just the point. The army let things go to pot so that they could clear up the mess later on. In 1980, they organized a coup d'etat. A neat job, with no messes. The terrorists on both sides were arrested. The Grey Wolves felt betrayed. They had fought against communism, and now a right-wing government was putting them in jail… At the time, Türkes wrote: 'I am in prison, but my ideas are in power.' In fact, the Grey Wolves were soon freed. Türkes gradually started up his political activities once more. In his wake, other Grey Wolves went straight. They became politicians and members of parliament. But there were still the hit men left, the peasants who had been trained in camps. All they knew was violence and fanaticism."

"Yeah." Matkowska went on. "And now they were orphans. The right wing was in power and didn't need them anymore. Türkes was too busy becoming respectable to want to have anything to do with them. When they were released from prison, what could they do?"

Naubrel put down his coffee cup and answered the question. They had their double act down to a science.

"They became mercenaries. They were armed and experienced. So they worked for the highest bidder, the state or the mafia. According to the Turkish journalists we contacted, it's an open secret that the Grey Wolves were used by the MIT, the Turkish secret service, to assassinate Armenian and Kurdish leaders. They formed a militia, or death squads. But most of all, it was the mafia that employed them as debt collectors, racketeers, bodyguards… In the mid 1980s, they oversaw the development of the drug trade in Turkey. Sometimes they even replaced the mafia clans and took over the reins. They have a vital advantage over classic crooks: they have kept their links with the powers that be and especially with the police. Over the past few years, a series of scandals have revealed the close links between the mafia, the state and nationalism."

Paul thought this over. It all seemed like vague, ancient history to him. The word mafia was a catch-all term. Still the same images of an octopus, plots, and invisible networks… what did it all really mean? Nothing in this brought him any nearer to the killers he was chasing, nor to their female target. He had no faces, no names to go on.

As though following his train of thought, Naubrel laughed and said proudly, "And now for some pictures!" He pushed aside the papers and stuck his hands in an envelope. "We took a look at the photo archives of the Milliyet newspaper on the Internet. It's one of Istanbul 's biggest dailies. And we found this."

Paul picked up the image. "What is it?"

"The funeral of Alpaslan Türkes. The 'Old Wolf' died in April 1997. He was eighty. It was a real national event."

Paul could not believe his eyes. The funeral had drawn thousands of Turks. The caption on the photo even read: "A funeral procession of four kilometers, escorted by ten thousand policemen."

It was a solemn, magnificent scene. As black as the crowd gathered around the procession, in front of Ankara 's Grand Mosque. As white as the snow that was falling that day in large flakes. As red as the Turkish flags, floating all around among the faithful.

The next pictures showed the head of the main group. He recognized Tansu Çiller, the former prime minister, and supposed that other Turkish dignitaries must have been there, too. He even noted the presence of emissaries from neighboring countries, wearing the traditional costumes of Central Asia, with their fur hats and gold-embroidered greatcoats.

Suddenly, Paul had another idea. Mafia godfathers must also have taken part in the procession… The heads of the families of Istanbul and other regions of Anatolia must have come to pay a final homage to their political ally. Among them, there might even be the people behind the very case he was working on-the man who had set the killers on the track of Sema Gokalp…

He examined the other photos, which revealed interesting details about the crowd. For example, most of the red flags did not have just one crescent-the symbol of Turkey -but three arranged in a triangle. This was echoed by other posters featuring a wolf howling beneath three moons.

It seemed to Paul that he was looking at an army on the march, stone warriors with primitive values and esoteric symbols. More than just a political party, the Grey Wolves were a sort of sect, a mystical clan with ancestral traditions.

In the final reproductions, another detail surprised him: the militants were not lifting clenched fists when the coffin passed, as he had thought. Their salute was more original, with two raised fingers. He focused on a woman, in tears in the snow, who was making this strange gesture.

When he looked more closely, he saw that she was raising her index and pinkie fingers, while her other two fingers were bent beneath her thumb, as though forming a pincer. He asked, out loud, "What does that gesture mean?"

"I dunno," Matkowska replied. "They're all doing it. It must be a sign of recognition. They look completely nuts to me!"

That sign was the key. Two fingers up, pointing to the sky, like ears… Suddenly, the penny dropped.

Facing Naubrel and Matkowska, he made the gesture. "Jesus," he whispered. "Can't you see what it represents?" Paul moved his hand till it was in profile, pointed like a snout toward the window. "Look carefully."

"Shit," Naubrel murmured. "It's a wolf. The head of a wolf"

On the way out of the bar, Paul announced, "We'll split up."

The other two cops took the blow. After a sleepless night, they had obviously hoped to go home. He ignored their desperate stares. "Naubrel, you get back onto the decompression chambers.”

“What? But I-"

"I want a complete list of sites containing that sort of equipment in the entire Paris region."

The officer opened his hands in a gesture of impotence. "It's a blind alley, Captain. Matkowska and I have been through the lot. From masonry to heating, from sanitation to glaziers. We've visited test sites, we've-"

Paul stopped him. If he had followed his own opinion, then he would have dropped the matter, too. But Schiffer had asked him about the lead during their phone call, which meant that he had good reason to take an interest in it. And more than ever, Paul was beginning to trust the old man's instincts…

"I want a list," he said firmly "With all the places where there's a chance the killers might have used a chamber."

"What about me?" Matkowska asked.

Paul handed him the keys to his apartment.

"You go to my place, Rue du Chemin Vert. From the mailbox, you get back all the catalogues, guidebooks and documents about ancient masks and busts. There's someone on the homicide squad collecting them for me."

"Then what do I do with them?"

He didn't really believe in this lead either. But he could hear Schiffer asking, ‘ What about the ancient masks?’ Maybe Paul's hypothesis was not that bad after all… "You sit down comfortably in my apartment," he went on firmly. "Then you compare all the images with the faces of the victims."

"Why?"

"To look for similarities. I'm sure the way the killer disfigures them is based on some archaeological remains."

The incredulous officer stared at the keys glittering in his palm. Paul made no further explanation. Walking toward his car, he concluded: "Report at noon. But if you find anything solid before, call me at once."