Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

Another memory: the Cipher hiding under an assumed name in Longères, his hunted look in the home… yes, he was afraid of the reprisals of the Turkish clans. The pieces were coming together, but Paul was still unconvinced. The overall pattern seemed too weak, too vague.

"That's just a load of guesswork." he replied. "You haven’t got the slightest proof. To begin with, why are you so sure that this dope never arrived in Europe?"

"There are two points that make that clear. First off, heroin of that quality would have made its mark on the market. There would have been an upsurge in overdoses, for instance. And that didn't happen."

"And the second point?"

"We found the dope."

"When?"

"Today" Amien glanced over his shoulder. "In the columbarium.”

“Here?"

"If you'd gone a little farther into the crypt, you'd have seen it for yourself, scattered among the ashes of the dead. It must have been stashed in one of the niches that were blown apart during the shoot-out. It's unusable now." He smiled again. "I must admit that the symbolism is rather powerful-white death ending up among the gray dead… It was that heroin that Schiffer came to fetch last night. It was his investigations that led him to it."

"What investigations?"

"Yours."

The cables still refused to find their connection. Paul mumbled, "I don't get it."

"But it's perfectly obvious. For some months, we have been thinking that the runner used by the Turks was a woman. In Turkey, women c anbecome doctors, engineers and ministers. So why not drug smugglers?"

This time, the connection clicked into place. Sema Gokalp. Anna Heymes. The woman with two faces. The Turkish mafia had sent it sWolves to track down the woman who had betrayed them.

The target was the runner.

A thought flashed across Paul's mind: that night, Schiffer had jumped Sema just as she was picking up her stash.

There had been a fight.

There had been a murder.

And the prey was still on the run…

Amien was no longer in a laughing mood. "Your investigations interest us, Nerteaux. We have established a link between the three victims in your case and the woman we're looking for. The heads of the Turkish cartel have sent over their hit men to smoke her out, and so far they've failed. “Where is she, Nerteaux? Have you got the slightest idea where to find her?"

Paul did not reply. He was mentally going back along the track that had passed right under his nose. The Grey Wolves were torturing women in their search for some dope. Schiffer, with his usual flair, had gradually sniffed out that they were looking for the very person who had double-crossed him by making off with the precious load…

Suddenly, he made up his mind. Without a word of introduction, he told Olivier Amien the whole story. The kidnapping of Zeynep Tütengil in November 2001. The discovery of Sema Gokalp in the baths. The intervention of Philippe Charlier and the brainwashing. The program of mental conditioning. The creation of Anna Heymes. Her escape and rediscovery of her own story as she gradually got her memory back… until she became a drug runner once more and returned to the cemetery.

When Paul fell silent, the officer looked completely baffled. After a long pause, he asked, "That's why Charlier's here?"

"Beauvanier, too. They're up to their ears in this story. They wanted to see for themselves that Schiffer's really dead. But there's still Anna.

Heymes. And Charlier has to find her before she talks. He'll eliminate her as soon as he locates her. You're coursing the same hare."

Amien stood in front of Paul and froze. His expression was as hard as stone. "I'll deal with Charlier. What information have you got on the woman?"

Paul looked at the sepulchres around them. An ancient portrait in an oval frame. A placid Virgin, head leaning to one side, draped in a languid cape. A silent Christ, in a bronze like mood… There must be one salient detail in all this, but which one?

Amien grabbed his arm. "Do you have a lead? Schiffer's death is going to land on your plate. Your career as a policeman is over-unless we lay our hands on the girl and the whole affair is made public. With you as the hero. So I'll ask again. Have you got a lead?"

"I want to continue the investigation myself," Paul declared. "Give me the information; then we'll see."

"I want your word."

Amien lost his patience. "Out with it!"

Paul stared around one more time at the monuments: Mary's eroded face, Jesus' long features, the cameo with its sepia tint… At last he caught on. Faces. That was the only lead he had on her.

"She's altered her appearance," he murmured. "By plastic surgery. I have a list of ten surgeons capable of performing such an operation in Paris. I've already seen three of them. Give me one day to question the others."

Amien was clearly disappointed. "And… and that's all you've got?"

Paul thought of the fruit preserves plant and his vague suspicions about Azer Akarsa. But if that bastard was involved in the murders, he wanted him just for himself "Yes," he lied. "That's all. But it's far from nothing. Schiffer was convinced that the surgeon would help us find her. Let me prove to you that he was right."

Amien clenched his jaws. He now looked like a predator. He pointed at a gate behind Paul's back. "Alexandre-Dumas metro station is just there. Now vanish. I'll give you till noon to find her."

Paul realized that the officer had led him here intentionally. That he had always intended to suggest this sort of deal.

Amien slipped a business card into Paul's pocket. "My cell phone number. Find her, Nerteaux. It's your only chance. Otherwise, in a few hours' time, you'll be the target."

Paul did not take the metro. No self-respecting police officer takes the metro.

He sprinted as far as Place Gambetta, past the cemetery wall, until he found his car on Rue Emile-Landrin. He grabbed his old map of Paris, which was still stained with blood, and reread the list of remaining names.

Seven surgeons. Spread out over four parts of Paris and two suburbs.

He marked their addresses with circles on his map and worked out the quickest itinerary from one to the other, starting from the twentieth arrondissement.

When he was sure which route to take, he placed his flashing light on the roof and put his foot down, concentrating on the first name. Dr. Jérome Chéret, 18 Rue du Rocher, in the eighth arrondissement.

He headed due west, going up Boulevard Rochechouart, then Boulevard de Clichy. He took the protected bus lanes, lapping up the cycle routes and gliding up onto the pavements. He even took two one-way streets in the wrong direction.

When he had reached Boulevard des Batignolles, he slowed down and called up Naubrel. "Where are you at?"

"I'm on my way out of Matak Limited. I managed to wangle my way in with the hygiene department. A surprise inspection."

"And?"

"An immaculately white, clean plant. A real laboratory. I saw the high-pressure chamber. It's spotless. Nothing to be hoped for in that direction. I also spoke to the engineers…"

Paul had imagined a half-abandoned industrial site, full of rust, where somebody's screams would never have been heard. But suddenly, the idea of a spick-and-span lab seemed even more appropriate.

"Did you speak to the manager?"

"Yeah. Discreetly. He's French. Sounded squeaky-clean to me.”

“And further up? Have you identified the Turkish owners?"

"The site belongs to a public company called Yalin AS, which is in turn part of a holding group registered in Ankara. I've contacted the chamber of commerce and-"

"Hurry up. Pinpoint the shareholders. And don't forget the name Azer Akarsa." He hung up and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes since he had left the cemetery.