Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

Paul was sweltering inside his own body. Fiery rashes were burning his face. A migraine was pulsating down into the nape of his neck. His heartbeat had grown so loud he could count his pulse rate. He needed to stop at a drugstore, but he kept putting that off until after the next intersection.

Bruno Simmonnet, 139 Avenue de Ségur, seventh arrondissement. Nothing.

The surgeon was a huge man, holding a bulky tomcat in his arms. Seeing them together like that, in perfect harmony, it was impossible to say who was stroking whom. Paul was putting away his pictures when the doctor remarked. "You're not the first person to show me that face."

Paul started. "Which one?"

"This one." Simonnet pointed at the Identikit portrait of Sema Gokelp.

"Who showed it to you? A police officer?"

The man nodded, his fingers still tickling his cat's neck.

Paul thought of Schiffer. "Was he middle-aged, tough looking, with silvery hair?"

"No. He was young. With scruffy hair. Like a student. He had a slight accent."

Paul took each blow like a boxer on the ropes. He had to lean against the marble mantelpiece. "Was his accent Turkish?"

"How should I know? But oriental, probably, yes."

"When did he come?"

"Yesterday morning."

"What name did he give?"

"He didn't."

"Any means of contact?"

"No. Which was strange. In the movies, you always leave your calling card, don't you?"

"I'll be back."

Paul ran to his car. He grabbed one of the photos of Türkes's funeral in which Akarsa could be seen. When he returned, he asked, "Can you see the same man in this picture?"

The surgeon pointed at the man in the corduroy jacket. "That's him. No doubt about it." He looked up. "So he's not one of your colleagues?"

Paul fished up a few scraps of cool from the depths of his soul and showed him the portrait of the redhead once again. "You told me that he asked you to identify this woman. Was it the same picture? An Identikit like this one?"

"No. It was a black-and-white photo. Of a group, in fact. On a university campus, or something like that. The quality was rather poor, but she's the same woman as in your picture. I'm sure about that."

The image of Sema Gokalp, young and valiant, amid other Turkish students, flashed before his eyes.

The only photo the Grey Wolves had. A blurred image that had cost the lives of three innocent women.

Paul drove off, leaving tire skid marks on the asphalt. He put his flashing light back on the roof and switched it on. Its gleam and the siren pierced through the bell jar of a day. Deductions poured though his mind. His heart beat in rhythm to their coursing.

The Grey Wolves were now following the same lead as he was. After three corpses, they had understood their mistake. They were now looking for the surgeon who had transformed their target.

Another posthumous victory for Schiffer. We're going to end up on the same track. I can just feel it.

Paul looked at his watch- 2:30. And only two names left on his list.

He had to get to the surgeon before the killers did. He had to find the woman before they did. Paul Nerteaux versus Azer Akarsas. The son of nobody versus the son of Asena, the white wolf.

Frédéric Gruss lived in the heights of Saint-Cloud. While Paul was driving along the fast lane toward the Bois de Boulogne, he phoned Naubrel once more.

"Still nothing from the Turks?"

"Sorry, Captain. I'm-"

"Forget it."

"What?"

"Do you still have your copies of the photos of Türkes's funeral?"

"Yes, on my computer."

"There's one where you can see the coffin right in the foreground.”

“Just a second. I'll get a pen."

"In that photo, the third person to the left is a young man in a corduroy jacket. I want you to make a blowup of his portrait and put out a bulletin in the name of-"

"Azer Akarsas?"

"You've got it."

“Is he the killer?"

Paul's throat muscles were so tense, he found it difficult to speak. "Just put out the bulletin."

"Okay. Is that all?"

"No. Go and see Bomarzo, the magistrate in charge of murder investigations. Ask him for a warrant to search the premises of Matak Limited."

"Me? But it'd be better if it was you who-"

"Tell him I sent you. Tell him I've got some hard evidence.”

“Evidence?"

"An eyewitness. Then call Matkowska and ask him for the pictures of Nemrut.”

"Of what?"

Once again, he spelled out the name and explained his thinking. "And check with him if Akarsa's name appears on the list of visa holders. Get all that together then head over to see the magistrate.”

“What if he asks me where you are?"

Paul hesitated. "Then give him this number." He read out Olivier Amien's mobile number. They can sort this shit out between themselves, he thought as he hung up. The Saint-Cloud bridge was in sight.

3:30

Boulevard de la République was quite literally glittering in the sunlight, snaking up the hill that led to Saint-Cloud. A fresh blooming of springtime, already bringing out naked shoulders and languid poses along the café terraces. What a shame. For the final act, Paul would have preferred a sky laden with menace. An apocalyptic firmament, torn by lightning and darkness.

As he drove along the boulevard, he remembered his visit to the morgue with Schiffer. How many centuries had gone by since then?

In the heights of the town, the roads were quiet and empty. The créme de la crème of leafy suburbs. A concentrated dot of vanity and wealth looking down over the Seine valley and the less desirable neighborhoods.

Paul shivered with fever, exhaustion and excitement. Brief absences punctuated his vision. Dark stars hit the back of his eyes. He was unable to fight off sleep. It was one of his weaknesses, something he had never been able to do, even when he was little and petrified, waiting for his father to come home.

His father. The image of the old man was starting to meld into that of Schiffer-the lacerations in the car seat blending into the wounds on that body covered with ash…

The sound of a horn woke him up. The light had turned green. He had fallen asleep. In a fury, he sped off and finally reached Rue des Chènes.

He turned down it, looking for number 37. The buildings were invisible, hidden behind stone walls or rows of pine trees. Insects were humming. All of nature seemed drenched with spring sun.

He found a parking space just in front of the right building: a black gate, stuck between whitewashed ramparts.

He was about to ring the bell when he noticed that the gate was ajar. An alarm started ringing in his head. This did not fit with the general atmosphere of vigilance in the neighborhood. Instinctively, Paul pulled back the Velcro strip that was keeping his gun in place.

The garden in the property was a typical one: a strip of lawn, gray trees and a gravel path. At the far end, a huge mansion house rose up with white walls and black shutters. A two-or three-car garage, with a closed swing door, stood next to it.

No dog, no servants came to meet him. Apparently, there was not the slightest movement within.

The alarm in his head started ringing louder.

He went up the three steps that led to the front door and noticed something else that was wrong. A broken window. He swallowed his saliva, then very slowly took out his 9-mm. He pushed back the pane and clambered over the sill, being careful not to crush the shards of glass on the floor. Three feet to his right, there was a hall. Silence enfolded his every move. He turned his back to the door and walked down the corridor.