Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

It was now time to deal with afresh idea that was bugging him. Ali Ajik, a cultural attaché at the Turkish embassy, lived a few blocks away. It might be worth contacting him. He had always been cooperative during this case, and Paul now needed to talk to a Turkish citizen.

In his car, he picked up his cell phone, which was at last fully recharged. Ajik was not asleep-or at least so he said.

A few minutes later, Paul was clambering up the diplomat's stairs. He was shaking slightly, from the lack of sleep, from hunger and excitement…

He was welcomed into a small, modern apartment that had been transformed into Ali Baba's cave. Varnished furniture sparkled with cooper glints. Medallions, frames and lanterns took the walls by storm with gold and bronze beams. The floor vanished beneath layers of rugs, vibrant with the same ochre shades. This Thousand and One Nights décor did not fit the man himself Ajik was a modern Turkish polyglot, about forty years old.

"Before me," he explained apologetically, "the apartment was occupied by a diplomat from the old school." He smiled, his hands stuck in the pockets of a pearl gray tracksuit. "So what's the panic?"

"I want to show you some photos."

"Some photos? No problem. Come on in. I'm making some tea."

Paul wanted to refuse, but he had to play the game. This visit was informal, not to say illegal-he was stepping beyond the limits of diplomatic immunity. He sat down on the floor, among the rugs and embroidered cushions, while Ajik, cross-legged, poured tea into small bulbous glasses.

Paul observed him. His regular features, below short-cropped black hair, fit over his skull like a hood. A clear face, drawn by a calligrapher's nib. Only his stare was disturbing, with asymmetric eyes. The left pupil never moved, remaining forever fixed on whoever he was looking at, while the other was fully mobile.

Without touching his scalding glass, Paul got to the point. "First, I want to talk about the Grey Wolves."

"Is this a new case?"

Paul ducked the question. "What do you know about them?"

"It was all a long time ago. They were really powerful in the 1970s. Extremely violent people…" He slowly took a sip. "Have you noticed my eye?"

Paul tried to look astonished, as if to say, "Now that you mention it…"

"Yes, of course you'd noticed it." Ajik smiled. "It was the Idealists who put it out. On the university campus, when I was a left-wing militant. Their methods were rather… harsh."

"And now?"

Ajik gestured wearily. "They no longer exist. Or not as terrorists, anyway. They don't need to use force anymore. They're in power in Turkey ”

“I'm not talking about politicians. I'm talking about hoods. The people who work in organized crime."

Ajik's expression became more ironic. "All those stories… in Turkey, it's hard to tell fact from fiction."

"Some of them work for mafia families-yes or no?"

"They certainly did in the past. But now…" He wrinkled his brows. "Why are you asking me this? Does it have something to do with all those murders?"

Paul decided to press on. "From what I understand, even though they work for the mafia, these men remain loyal to their cause."

"That's right. In fact, they look down on the gangsters who employ them. They are convinced that they are serving a higher ideal."

"Tell me about it."

Ajik took a deep breath, exaggerating the swelling of his chest, as though puffing himself up with patriotism. "The return of the Turkish empire. The illusory Turan."

"What's that?"

"I'd need an entire day to explain that."

"Please," Paul said more abruptly "I have to understand what drives these people."

Ali Ajik leaned on an elbow "The origins of the Turkish people lie in the steppes of Central Asia. Our ancestors had slanted eyes and lived in the same regions as the Mongols. For example, the Huns were Turks. These nomads crossed all of Central Asia before reaching Anatolia in about the tenth century of the Christian era."

"But what's the Turan?"

"A primordial empire, which is supposed to have existed long ago, uniting all of Central Asia 's Turkish speakers. A sort of Atlantis, which historians often mention but without offering any real proof of its existence. The Grey Wolves dream of this lost continent. Their hope is to unite the Uzbeks, the Tatars, the Uigurs, the Turkmen and thus form a mighty empire stretching from the Balkans to the Baikal."

"Is that feasible?"

"No, of course not. But there is a hint of reality in such a fantasy. Today, nationalists are promoting economic alliances, a sharing of natural resources between the Turkish-speaking peoples. Such as oil."

Paul remembered those men with slanting eyes and embroidered coats in the picture of the funeral of Türkes. He had been right: the world of the Grey Wolves was a state within a state. An underground nation, beyond the laws and boundaries of other countries. He took out the photos of the funeral. His Buddha position was starting to give him cramps. "Do these pictures mean anything to you?"

Ajik picked up the first one, and murmured, "Türkes's burial… wasn't in Istanbul at the time."

"Do you recognize any important people?"

"But the entire ruling class was there! Members of the government. Representatives of right-wing parties. Candidates for Türkes's succession…"

"Are there any active Grey Wolves? I mean known villains?"

The diplomat looked through the snaps. He seemed more ill at ease, as though the very sight of these men raised an ancient terror in him. He pointed. "This one. He's Oral Celik."

"Who's he?"

"The accomplice of Ali Aga. One of the two men who tried to assassinate the pope in 1981."

And he's at large?"

"That's Turkey for you. Don't forget the close links between the Grey Wolves and the police. Or how corrupt our judicial system is…"

"Do you recognize any others?"

Ajik appeared more reticent. "I'm no specialist."

"I'm talking about celebrities. Heads of the families."

"Babas, you mean?"

Paul made a mental note of the term, which was presumably the Turkish equivalent of godfather.

Ajik spent some time on each photo. "Some faces ring a bell," he said at last, "but I can't put a name to them. People who appeared regularly in the press, during trials for gun running, kidnapping, illegal casinos…"

Paul removed a felt-tip pen from his pocket. "Circle each face you recognize. And jot the name down beside it, if it comes back to you."

The Turk drew several circles but wrote no names. Suddenly, he stopped. "This one's a real star. A national figure."

He pointed at a large man, about seventy years old, who was walking with a stick. His high forehead, gray hair brushed back and jutting jaws gave him the profile of a stag. He oozed power.

"His name's Ismail Kudseyi. He's undoubtedly the most powerful buyuk-baba in Istanbul. I read an article about him recently… Apparently, he's still in business today. One of Turkey 's major drug runners. Photos of him are a rarity. It's said that he had the eyes torn out of a photographer who had managed to take a series of surreptitious portraits of him."

"And he's known to have criminal activities?"

Ajik burst out laughing. "Of course! In Istanbul, people say that all Kudseyi has to fear is an earthquake."

"And is he linked to the Grey Wolves?"

"In a big way. He's one of their historic leaders. Most of today's police officers were trained in his camps. He's also famous as a philanthropist. His foundation provides grants for underprivileged children. All this with a background of fervent patriotism."

Paul noticed a detail. "What does he have on his hands?"

"Scars caused by acid. It's said that he started out as a hit man in the 1960s. He used to get rid of his victims in acid baths. Another rumor."