Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

Paul felt a strange tingling in his veins. Such a man could well have ordered the execution of Sema Gokalp. But why? And why him rather than the next man in the procession? How could he run an investigation at a distance of over a thousand miles?

Paul looked at the other circled faces. Harsh, rigid stares, mustaches whitened by the snow… He could not help feeling a certain respect for these lords of crime. Among them, he noticed a young man with a thick head of hair.

"And him?"

"The new generation. He's Azer Akarsa. One of Kudseyi's protégés. Thanks to the backing of his foundation, this young peasant has become a big businessman. He's made a fortune on the fruit market. Today, Akarsa owns huge orchards in his native region, near Gaziantep. And he isn't even forty yet. A real young Turk in every sense of the term."

The name Gaziantep set off a spark in Paul's mind. All of the victims came from that area. Was it just a coincidence? He gazed at the young man in his corduroy jacket, done up to the neck. He looked less like a business prodigy and more like a dreamy, bohemian student.

"And is he in politics, too?"

Ajik nodded in confirmation. "A modern leader. He has set up his own clubs. Their members listen to rap, talk about Europe, drink alcohol. It all seems very liberal."

"So he's a moderate, then?"

"Only in appearance. In my opinion, Akarsa is a pure fanatic. Maybe the worst of them all. He believes in a radical return to the roots. He's obsessed by Turkey 's prestigious past. He, too, has his own foundation, which finances archaeological work."

Paul thought of those ancient masks, faces carved like stone. But it was not a lead. Nor even a theory. It was a crazy idea totally lacking in support.

"Any criminal activities?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so. Akarsa doesn't need any money. And I'm sure that he looks down on those Grey Wolves who have compromised themselves with the mafia. To his mind, they are unworthy of the cause.".

Paul glanced at his watch- 9:30. He still had plenty of time to see a few more surgeons. He put away the photos and got to his feet.

"Thanks, Ali. I'm sure all this information's going to be useful, one way or another."

The man showed him out. In the doorway, he asked, "You still haven't answered my question. Do the Grey Wolves have anything to do with that series of murders?"

"Yes, there is a possibility that they're involved."

"But… how?"

"I can't tell you."

"Do you… do you think they're in Paris?"

Without answering, Paul walked down the corridor. He stopped by the stairs. "One last thing, Ali. Why are they called the Grey Wolves?”

“Because of the myth of our origin."

"What myth?"

"It's said that, a long time ago, the Turks were a mere starving horde, wandering homelessly in the heartlands of Central Asia. When they were on their last legs, some wolves fed them and protected them. Gray wolves, who gave birth to the real Turkish people."

Paul noticed that he was gripping the rail so tightly that his knuckles were white. He pictured a pack roaring across the infinite steppes, mingling with the gray gleam of the sun.

Ajik concluded, "They protect the Turkish race, Captain. They are the guardians of our origins, of our initial purity. Some of them even think that they're the distant descendants of a white she-wolf, called Asena. I hope you're wrong and that these people aren't in Paris. Because they're not ordinary criminals. They're unlike anything or anybody you've ever seen before."

Paul was getting into his Golf when his phone rang.

"Maybe I've found something, Captain." It was Naubrel.

"What?"

"I questioned a heating engineer, and I discovered that they use pressure chambers in a field we haven't explored yet."

Paul's head was still full of wolves and steppes. He could not really see what the officer was talking about. He asked, "What field do you mean?"

"The preservation of food. Its a Japanese technique that's just been adopted. Instead of heating products, you put them under high pressure. It's more expensive, but it means you conserve their vitamins and-"

"For Christ's sake, get to the point. Do you have a lead or not?"

Naubrel's voice darkened. "In the Paris region, there are several factories that use this method. Suppliers of luxury goods, like organic food or stuff for upmarket delis. There's a site that looks particularly interesting, in the Bièvre valley"

"Why?"

"It belongs to a Turkish company."

Paul felt the roots of his hair tingle. "What's its name?"

"Matak Limited." Two syllables that obviously meant nothing to him. "What sort of things do they produce?"

"Fruit juices and luxury jams. According to my information, it's more of a laboratory than an industrial site. It's a pilot project."

The tingling turned into electric waves. Azer Akarsa, the nationalist golden boy, had made his money from fruit trees. Could the country boy from Gazantiep have a connection here? Paul's voice rose. "Right. So now you're going to give the place a visit."

"Now?"

"When do you think? I want you to search through their pressurized chambers with a fine-tooth comb. But watch out. No question of having a warrant or flashing your police card."

"So how do you expect me to-?"

"Find something. I also want you to identify the Turkish owners of the factory"

"But that must be a holding company, or some other private company!"

"Ask the managers at the plant. Then contact the French Chamber of Commerce. The Turkish one, too, if necessary. I want a list of the main shareholders."

Naubrel apparently guessed that his boss had a precise idea in mind. "What are we after?"

"Maybe a name. Azer Akarsa."

"Jesus, these names… Can you spell that?"

Paul did so. He was about to hang up when the officer asked, Have you been listening to your radio?"

"Why?"

"Last night, a body was found in Père-Lachaise. It's been mutilated." A stab of ice in his side. "A woman?"

"No. A man. A cop who used to work in the tenth. Jean-Louis Schiffer. He specialized in Turks and-"

The major damage caused by a bullet in a human body is made not by the bullet itself but by its wake, creating a disastrous vacuum, the trail of a comet through the flesh, tissue and bone.

In the same way, Paul felt these words rip through him, amplifying inside him, drawing out a line of pain that made him scream. But he did not hear his own cry, because he had already placed his flashing light on the roof and turned on the siren.

They were all there.

He could rank them by their clothes. The bigwigs from Place Beauvau, in black coats and shiny shoes, wearing mourning like a second skin. The commissioners and brigade chiefs, in camouflage green or autumnal houndstooth, like lurking hunters. The inspectors in leather jackets and red armbands, looking like pimps recruited for a militia. Most of them, whatever their rank or duties, had a mustache. It was a sign of unity. A label that transcended their differences. As inevitable as the official stamps on their cards.

Paul went past the row of vans and patrol cars, with their silently turning lights at the foot of the columbarium. Then he discreetly slipped under the security cordon that blocked the entrance to the buildings.

Once inside, he turned left, beneath the arcades, and leaned back against a pillar. He had no time to admire the place-the long galleries whose walls were covered by names and flowers, that atmosphere of holy respect, hovering above the marble, where the memory of the dead drifted like a mist above the waters. He concentrated on the group of officers standing in the gardens, in the hope of spotting some familiar faces.