Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

She hung up and looked out through the barred window. The seaport was waking up. A slow movement, groggy from dawn, had started. A ship slid down the rails and rose up in the waves, before gliding under the arches of the brightly lit warehouses.

Her observation post was perfect. From there, she could keep an eye on both the train station and the jetties, the pier and the first seawall. No one could sneak up on her.

Shivering, she sat down on the steps.

Cigarette.

Her mind wandered. A memory rose up, for no apparent reason. The warmth of plaster on her skin. The strips of gauze on her tormented flesh. The unbearable itching under the dressings. She remembered her convalescence, between waking and sleeping, dozy with sedatives. And above all the shock of seeing her new face, swollen fit to burst, black and blue with bruises, covered with dried scabs…

They'd pay for that.

5:15.

The cold bit into her almost like a burn. Sema stood up, stamping her feet and flapping her arms to ward off the numbness. Those recollections of her operation brought her back to her latest discovery, a few hours before, at Istanbul Central Hospital. In reality, it had merely been a confirmation. She could now remember clearly that day in March 1999 in London. A mild inflammation of the colon, which had forced her to have X-rays done. And then to accept the truth.

How had they dared do that to her? Mutilate her for life?

That was why she had fled.

That was why she was going to murder all of them.

5:30.

The cold dug into her bones. Her blood flowed toward her vital organs, gradually abandoning her extremities to chilblains and frostbite. Before long, she would be paralyzed.

Mechanically, she walked as far as the door. She left the lighthouse stiffly and forced herself to liven up her legs by walking along the wall. The only source of heat left was her own blood. She had to make it circulate, to fill her entire body once more…

Voices could be heard in the distance. Sema looked up. Some fishermen were landing on the first wall. She had not foreseen that. Not so early, at least.

Through the darkness, she could see their lines already flicking across the waters. Were they really fishermen?

She looked at her watch- 5:45.

She would go in a few minutes. She could not wait for Azer Akarsa any longer. Instinctively she knew that wherever he was in Istanbul, half an hour would be enough for him to reach the station. If he needed more time than that, then it was because he was organizing something, preparing a trap.

A slapping sound. In the shadows, the wake of a rowing boat opened out over the water. It passed the first wall. A figure was bending above the oars with slow full, regular movements. A ray of moonlight flickered across his corduroy-clad shoulders.

At last, the boat touched the rocks.

He got to his feet, picking up the mooring rope. His gestures and the sounds were so banal that they became almost unreal. Sema could not believe that the man whose sole aim in life was to kill her was now just two yards away. Despite the lack of light, she could make out his worn, olive green corduroy jacket, his thick scarf his mop of hair… When he bent over to throw her the rope, she even caught a fleeting glimpse of his mauve eyes.

She caught the rope and tied it to her own. Azer was about to step onto land when she stopped him, brandishing her Glock. "The tarpaulins," she whispered.

He looked over at the old sheets piled in the boat.

"Lift them up."

lie did so. The bottom was empty.

"Come here. Slowly" She stepped back, to allow him onto the wall. She motioned to him to lift his arms. With her left hand, she frisked him. No gun.

"I'm playing by the rules," he murmured.

She pushed him toward the door, then followed him. When she went inside, he was already sitting on the iron steps.

A transparent sachet had appeared in his hands. "A chocolate?"

Sema did not reply.

He took one out and lifted it to his lips. "Diabetes," he said apologetically. "My insulin treatment causes drops in my blood sugar level. It's impossible to find the right dose. Several times a week, I get violent attacks of hypoglycemia, which are worsened by strong emotion. So I need sugar."

The wrapping paper glittered in his hands. Sema thought of the Mai-son du Chocolat, of Paris and Clothilde. Another world.

"In Istanbul, I buy marzipan wrapped in chocolate. A specialty of a confectioner in Beyoglu. In Paris, I found Jikolas…" He delicately placed the packet on the metal structure. Whether it was feigned or genuine, his coolness was impressive. The lighthouse slowly filled with lead blue light. The day was starting to come up while the pivot at the top continued to moan.

"Without these chocolates." he added. "I'd never have found you.”

“You never did find me."

A smile. He slid his hand once more toward his jacket.

Sema lifted her gun.

Azer slowed down his movement, then produced a black-and-white photograph. A simple group shot of students on a campus. " Bogaziçi University April 1999," he commented. "The only photo that exists of you. Of the old you. I mean…"

Suddenly a lighter appeared in his hand. The flame burst into the darkness, then bit slowly into the glossy paper, giving off a strong chemical smell.

"Few people can claim to have known you after that period, Sema. Especially as you constantly changed your name, your appearance, your country…"

He was still holding the crackling picture. The sparkling pink flames flashed over his face. She thought she was having one of her hallucinations. It was maybe the start of an attack… But she was wrong. The killer's face was simply flickering in the fire.

"A complete mystery" he went on. "In some ways, that's what cost three women their lives," he stared at the blaze in his fingers. "They writhed in agony. For a long time. A very long time…"

He finally dropped the photo, which fell into a puddle of water.

"I should have guessed you'd had surgery. It was a logical step for you. The final metamorphosis…" He stared down at the still-steaming pool. "We're the best in our different fields, Sema. What do you have to offer?"

She sensed that he did not see her as an enemy, but as a rival. Even better, as his double. This pursuit had become far more than a mere contract. It was a personal challenge. A journey through the looking glass.

On an impulse, she provoked him. "We're just tools, toys in the babas' hands."

Azer frowned. His face grew taut. "No, just the opposite," he murmured. "I use them to serve our cause. Their money…"

"We're their slaves."

Irritation crossed his face. Then he suddenly yelled, "What do you want?" He threw his chocolates to the ground. "What do you have to offer?"

"To you? Nothing. I want to talk to God in person."

Ismail Kudseyi was standing in the rain in the gardens of his property in Yeniköy.

Beside the patio, among the reeds, he stared at the river.

The Asian side stood out in the distance, like a slender ribbon being frayed by the downpour. It was over a thousand yards away, and not a single vessel was in sight. The old man felt safe, out of range of any snipers.

After Azer's phone call, he had felt the need to go there. To plunge his hand in those silvery folds and soak his fingers with green foam. It was an imperious, almost physical craving.

Leaning on his stick, he walked along the parapet and cautiously went down the steps that led directly into the water. A salty smell assailed him; the spray soaked him at once. The river was in a frenzy, but no matter how agitated the Bosporus was, there were always secret hiding places at the foot of the rocks, carved niches of grasses, where the waves rolled up in multicolored glints.