Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

They turned their backs on the columbarium and headed down an alleyway, which was reminiscent of a paved nineteenth-century side road. Paul saw some gravediggers smoking cigarettes, leaning on a sepulchre. They were presumably discussing that morning's incredible find.

In a voice laden with innuendo, Amien went on. "You worked for some time on the drug squad, I believe…"

"Yes, for a few years ."

"In what field?"

"Petty dealers. Cannabis, mostly. The North African networks.”

“You never had anything to do with the Golden Crescent?"

Paul wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "If you got straight to the point, then we'd both save a lot of time."

Amien beamed. "I hope you don't mind if I give you a little lesson in modern history."

Paul thought of all the names and dates he had absorbed so far that day "Go on. I'm making up for lost time today"

The top cop pushed his glasses up his nose and began. "I suppose you remember the Taliban? Since September II, you can't escape fundamentalists. The media has been full of stories about their lives and works, blowing up the Buddhas, their hospitality to bin Laden, and their despicable attitude to women, to culture and to any form of tolerance. But there's one side of them that is less well known and that was the only good point about their regime. Those monsters fought effectively against the production of opium. In their very first year in power, they practically eradicated poppy growing in Afghanistan. From thirty-three hundred tons of opium-based products in 2000, the total fell to just one hundred eighty-five tons in 2001. In their eyes, such activities are contrary to the Koran… But of course, as soon as Mullah Omar was deposed, cultivation started up all over again. Even as we speak, the peasants of Ningarhar are watching the flowers bloom on plants they sowed last November. They'll soon start harvesting, at the end of April."

Paul's attention came and went, as though carried on an inner tide. His tears had softened his feelings. He was hypersensitive, liable to burst into laughter or start sobbing again at the slightest thing.

"But before the attacks of September ii," Amien went on, "no one expected their regime to fall so soon. So the drug smugglers were already looking for new suppliers. In particular, the Turkish buyuk - babas, the `grandfathers' in charge of exporting heroin to Europe, had made contact with other producers such as Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. I don't know if you're aware of the fact, but such countries have the same linguistic roots."

Paul sniffed again. "Yes, I'm starting to be aware now"

Amien nodded curtly "In the past, the Turks had always bought their opium from Afghanistan and Pakistan. They had the morphine refined in Iran, then produced the heroin in their laboratories in Anatolia. With their Turkic cousins, they had to change their methods. They refined the gum in the Caucasus, then produced their powder in the far east of Anatolia. It took some time to set up these new networks and, so far as we know, it was still a makeshift job as late as last year. Then, in the winter of 2000-2000, we heard talk of a possible alliance. A triangular agreement between the Uzbek mafia; who control vast fields of production; the Russian clans, who are the heirs of the Red Army, which for years supervised the routes through the Caucasus and the refineries in that region; and the Turkish families who would then produce the actual heroin. But we had no names, no facts, just some interesting details suggesting that a high-level allegiance was being prepared."

They were now in a darker part of the cemetery. Black vaults, side by side, with grim doors and sloping roofs. It was like a mining village crouching under a coal black sky.

Amien clicked his tongue before continuing. "These three criminal groups decided to inaugurate their joint venture with a pilot consignment, a small quantity of dope that would be exported as a test and stand as a symbol. It would be an open door for the future… For this special occasion, each partner wanted to display their particular abilities. The Uzbeks supplied a top-quality gum. The Russians called in their best chemists to refine the base morphine, and, at the other end of the line, the Turks produced some practically pure heroin. A special number four. Nectar. We suppose that they also dealt with exporting the dope and transferring it to Europe. They had to prove their reliability in this field. They were now up against considerable competition from the Albanians and Kosovars, who had become masters of the routes through the Balkans."

Paul did not see what this story had to do with him.

"All this occurred at the end of the winter of 2001. We were expecting to see this famous consignment arrive at our frontier in the spring. It was a unique opportunity to nip this new network in the bud."

Paul gazed around at the tombs. This time it was a bright area, sculpted and varied as a music made of stone that was whispering in his ears.

"As early as the month of March, the customs men in Germany, France and Holland went on high alert. The ports, airports and border roads were watched around the clock. In each of our countries, members of the Turkish communities were questioned. We shook up our informers, bugged dealers' phones. By the end of May, we still hadn't found anything. Not a single clue or piece of information. In France, we started to get worried. So we decided to dig a little deeper into the Turkish community. To call in a specialist. A man who knew the Anatolian networks like the back of his hand, and who could become a real minesweeper."

These last words dragged Paul back to reality. He now grasped the connection between the two cases. "Jean-Louis Schiffer," he said without thinking.

"Exactly. The Cipher. Or Mr. Steel. As you prefer."

"But he was retired."

"So we had to ask him to reenlist."

Everything fell into place. The cover-up of April 2001. The Paris appeals court dropping charges against Schiffer for the murder of Gazil Hamet. Paul deduced, out loud: "Jean-Louis Schiffer did a deal. He insisted that you drop the Hamet affair."

"I can see that you know this business well."

"I'm part of it myself. And I'm beginning to see how deals are done with the police. The life of a little dealer isn't worth shit compared to the ambitions of a big boss."

"You're forgetting our main motivation: to stop a huge network from being set up, to destroy "

"Stop. I know the music already"

Amien raised his long hands, as though giving up any argument on the subject. "In any case, our problem was quite different."

"What do you mean?"

"Schiffer double-crossed us. When he found out which clan was involved in the alliance and how the convoy was being sent, he didn't tell us. We think he offered his services to the cartel. He must have suggested taking charge of the dope in Paris and then distributing it around the best dealers. Who better than him knew the drug scene in France?"

Arnim smiled cynically "Our intuition failed us in this case. What we wanted was Mr. Steel. What we got was the Cipher… We gave him the chance to pull off the stunt that he'd been waiting for years. This business would have been his crowning triumph."

Paul remained silent. He tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but there were too many gaps. After a minute, he asked. "If Schiffer had rounded off his career with such a caper, what was he doing rotting away in the Longères home?"

"It was because once more, nothing went as planned."

"Meaning?"

"The runner sent by the Turks never showed up. In the end, it was he who tricked everyone by making off with the consignment. Schiffer must have been scared that they'd suspect him. So he decided to lay low by locking himself away in Longéres until things blew over. Even a man like him feared the Turks. You can imagine the fate in store for traitors…"