Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

At the Villiers intersection, he swerved rapidly left into Rue du Rocher. He turned off the siren and lights to arrive in a more discreet fashion.

At 11:20, he rang at Jérome Chéret's door. He was invited to go through a side entrance, so as not to scare the clientele. The surgeon received him in the hush of an antechamber, leading to the operating theater.

"Just a quick glance." Paul told him after a few words of explanation. This time, he showed just two documents: the Identikit of Sema and Anna's new face.

"She's the same woman?" the surgeon said in admiration. "Lovely work."

"Do you know her or not?"

"Neither one nor the other. Sorry"

Paul ran down the stairs, across the red carpets, past the white plaster moldings. An X on his map, and off he went. It was 11:40.

Dr. Thierry Dewaele, 22 Rue de Phalsbourg, seventeenth arrondissement. Same kind of building. same questions, same answers.

At 12:15. he was turning the ignition key when his phone rang in his pocket. A message from Matkowska. He had called during Paul's brief interview with the doctor, but the signal had failed to penetrate behind those thick, swanky walls. He phoned back at once.

"I've got something new about those ancient sculptures," Matkowska said. "There's an archaeological site that contains giant heads. I've got some photos of them. These statues have fissures.. just like the mutilations…"

Paul closed his eyes. He did not know what thrilled him the most: getting close to a crazy murderer or having been correct right from the start.

Matkowska went on, in a trembling voice. "They're the heads of half-Greek, half-Persian gods that go back to the beginning of the Christian era. The sanctuary of a king, at the top of a mountain, in eastern Turkey -"

"Where exactly?"

"In the southeast. Near the border with Syria."

"Give me the names of the main towns."

"Hang on."

He heard the sound of pages turning. and muffled curses. He looked at his hands. They were not shaking. He felt ready, wrapped up in a casing of ice.

"There we are. There's a map. The Nemrut Dagi site is near Adiyaman and Gaziantep."

Gaziantep. Another lead pointing toward Azer Akarsa. He owned huge orchards in his native region, near Gaziantep, All Ajik had said. Were these orchards at the foot of the mountain where the statues were found? Had Azer Akarsa grown up in the shadow of those colossal heads?

Paul went back to the crux of the matter. He needed to hear confirmation for himself. "And these heads really look like the victims' faces?"

"It's amazing, Captain. The same cracks, the same mutilations. There's one statue, of a fertility goddess called Commagene, which is identical to the third victim. No nose, the chin rubbed down.. I've superimposed the two pictures. They're identical down to the last detail. I don't know what it all means, but it really gives you the shits, I."

Paul knew by experience that after long inquiries, the vital clues could sometimes fall together in the space of a few hours. Though Matkowska continued his report, Paul could hear Ajik's voice once more: He's obsessed by Turkey 's prestigious past. He, too, has his own foundation, which finances archaeological work.

Was the golden boy financing restoration work on that very site? Did those ancestral faces fascinate him for some personal reason? Paul paused, breathed deeply, then asked himself the vital question: Was Azer Akarsa the main killer? The leader of the commando unit? Could his passion for ancient stone go as far as to express itself in acts of torture and mutilation? It was too early to go any further.

Paul closed his mind to that theory and ordered, "Concentrate on these monuments. Try to find out if there's been any recent restoration work. And if so, who's financing it."

"Do you have an idea?"

"Maybe a foundation, but I don't know what it's called. If you find one, look at the names of its organizers and its main financiers. Look out for a certain Azer Akarsa."

Once again, he spelled the name. Sparks of fire now seemed to be bursting out between those letters, like shards of flint.

"Is that all?" the officer asked.

"No," Paul said breathlessly "Also check up on the visas given to Turkish nationals since last November. See if Akarsa was one of them."

"But that'll take hours!"

"No it won't. Everything's computerized. I've already put someone on the visa lead at the immigration office. Contact him and give him the name. And be quick about it."

"But -"

"Move it."

Didier Laferrière, 12 Rue Boissy-d'Anglas, eighth arrondissement.

When he walked through the door, Paul had a feeling-a cop's hunch, an almost paranormal sensation. There was something for him here.

The surgical suite was totally dark. The doctor, a little man with gray frizzy hair, was sitting behind his desk. In a neutral voice, he asked, "The police, is it? What can I do for you?"

Paul explained the situation and produced his photos. The surgeon seemed to shrink even further. He switched on his desk light and leaned over the pictures. Without a moment's hesitation, he pointed at the portrait of Anna Heymes and said, "I haven't operated on her, but I know this woman."

Paul clenched his fists. Sweet Jesus, he had hit lucky.

The surgeon went on. "She came to see me a few days ago.”

“Can you be more precise?"

"Last Monday. If you want, I can check my diary-"

"What did she want?"

"She behaved rather oddly."

"In what way?"

The surgeon shook his head. "She asked me a series of questions about the scars left by certain operations."

"What's so odd about that?"

"Nothing. It's just… either she was playacting or she's suffering from amnesia."

"Why?"

The doctor tapped his finger on the portrait of Anna Heymes. "Because she has already had surgery. At the end of the consultation, I noticed her scars. I have no idea what she wanted from me. Maybe she was thinking of suing the person who operated on her." He looked at the picture. "But whoever it was did a splendid job."

Another mark for Schiffer. In my opinion, she must be investigating her own past. And that was exactly what had happened. Anna Heymes was tracking Sema Gokalp.

Paul was drenched in sweat. It felt as though he were walking a path of fire. The target was there, in front of him, within arm's reach. "Is that all she said?" he asked. "She didn't leave an address, a phone number?"

"No. She just said, 'I'm going to have to see for myself first.' I've no idea what she meant. Who on earth is this woman?"

Without a word, Paul stood up. He grabbed a wad of Post-its from the desk and wrote down his cell phone number. "If she ever gets back in touch with you, do your best to locate her. Talk to her about her operation. About possible side effects. Make something up. Just pinpoint her, then call me. Okay?"

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Paul stopped, his fist on the door handle. "Why's that?”

“I don't know. You're all red."

Pierre Laroque, 24 Rue Maspero, sixteenth arrondissement.

Nothing.

Jean-François Skenderi, Clinique Massener, 58 Avenue Paul Doumer, sixteenth arrondissement.

Nothing.

At 2:00, Paul was crossing the Seine once more. Toward the left bank.

He had stopped using his flashing light and siren-too much of a headache-and was looking for some snatches of peace among the faces of the pedestrians, the colors of the shop fronts and the gleam of sunlight. He was amazed by all these city dwellers living out a normal day in a normal existence.

He called his lieutenants several times. Naubrel was still battling it out with the chamber of commerce in Ankara, while Matkowska was trawling through the museums, archaeological institutes, tourist offices and even UNESCO in search of the agencies that were funding work at Nemrut Dag i. At the same time, he was keeping an eye on the list of visas that the search progam had spit out, but Akarsa's name stubbornly refused to appear.