Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

As he had never made up his mind to eliminate them, he set them against each other so that they would do the job for him. But nothing had gone according to plan. Sema had remained untraceable. And Azer had merely succeeded in sparking off a series of murders in Paris. His name was now on an international arrest warrant, and Kudseyi's own criminal cartel had sentenced him to death-Azer had become too dangerous.

Then, suddenly, something had upset the entire situation.

Sema had reappeared. And asked to meet with him. She was still leading the dance…

He took one last look at his reflection in the mirror and abruptly discovered a different man. A dotard with a burned frame, his bones as sharp as blades. A charred predator, like that prehistoric skeleton that had just been dug up in Pakistan., He slid his comb into his jacket and tried to smile at his reflection. It felt as if he was greeting a death's-head, with hollow eye sockets.

He headed toward the stairs and gave an order to his bodyguards: "Geldiler. Beni yalniz birakin."

The room he called his meditation room measured a good thousand square feet and had a parquet floor. He could also have called it his throne room. On the top of the three steps of a dais stood a long off-white sofa covered with cushions of golden braid. In front of it was a coffee table. On either side, two lamps shed arcs of shaded light onto the white walls, along which chests of carved wood were aligned like solid shadows, secrets sealed with mother-of-pearl. And nothing else.

Kudseyi liked this simplicity, this almost mystic void that seemed ready to receive the prayers of a Sufi.

He walked across the room and up the steps and stopped by the table. He put down his stick and picked up a carafe of ayran -made of yogurt and water-which was always there for him. He poured a glass and drank it all in one gulp. Savoring the freshness that was filling his body, he stared at his treasures. Ismail Kudseyi had the finest collection of carpets in Turkey, but the true masterpiece was kept there over the sofa.

The small ancient rug, just three feet square, glimmered with a dark red, trimmed with tarnished yellow-the color of gold, of corn. of baked bread. In the center was a blue-black rectangle. a sacred color evoking heaven and infinity. Inside it, a large cross was decked with ram's horns. symbolizing the male warrior. Above, an eagle spread out its wings. crowning and protecting the cross. Meanwhile, on the bordering frieze.

"They're here. Leave me alone."

Could be seen the tree of life, the saffron, the flower of joy and happiness, beside a marijuana plant, offering eternal sleep…

Kudseyi could have examined this masterpiece for hours. It seemed to sum up his world of war, drugs and power. He also loved the mystery contained in the stitch of its wool, which had always intrigued him. Once again he asked himself the question: "Where is the triangle? Where is fortune?"

First, he admired the metamorphosis.

That buxom girl had turned into a slender brunette, in the modern style of femininity-small breasts and narrow hips. She was wearing a black padded coat, straight trousers of the same color and square-tipped boots. A true Parisian.

But above all he was fascinated by the transformation of her face. How many operations, how many incisions had been needed to obtain such a result? The desire to run away, to flee its own yoke, was written all over that unrecognizable face. It could also be read in the depths of her indigo eyes. Their blue gleam could barely be seen beneath her drooping eyelashes, and it pushed you away, like an intruder, an unwanted presence. Yes, behind these modified features, in those eyes he could make out the primitive hardness of his nomadic people, a wild energy born of desert winds and the burning sun.

Suddenly, he felt old, finished. A charred mummy, with lips of dust.

Remaining on his sofa, he let her approach. She had been thoroughly searched. Her clothes had been examined. Her very body had been x-rayed. Two bodyguards were now standing beside her, holding MP7s, with the security catch off, bullets in the breach. Standing slightly behind them, Azer was armed as well.

And yet, Kudseyi felt vaguely apprehensive. His warrior's instinct whispered to him that, despite her apparent fragility, this woman was still dangerous. It made him feel slightly queasy. What was in her mind? Why had she given herself up like this?

She was looking at the rug, hung on the wall behind him. He decided to speak in French, to give an even more formal nature to their meeting. "One of the oldest carpets in the world. Russian archaeologists discovered it in the middle of a block of ice, near the frontier between Siberia and Mongolia. It must be nearly two thousand years old, and is thought to have belonged to the Huns. The cross, the eagle, the ram's horns are purely masculine symbols. It was probably hung up in the clan chieftain's tent."

Sema remained silent. A mute needle.

"A carpet for men, except that it was woven by a woman, like all the kilims of Central Asia." He paused and smiled. "I often try to imagine the one who made it. A mother excluded from the world of warriors, but one who managed to impose her presence even in the tent of the great Khan."

Sema did not make the slightest movement. The bodyguards drew closer.

"At that time, the weaver always concealed a triangle among the other patterns, to protect her rug from the evil eye. I like that idea. Patiently, a woman would produce a virile design, full of warlike symbols, while somewhere, on the border, amid a frieze, she would slip in a maternal touch. Can you see where the triangular charm is on this rug?"

Not a word, not a gesture from Sema.

He grabbed the carafe of ayran, slowly filled a glass, then drank it even more slowly.

"You can't see it?" he said at last. "Never mind. This story reminds me of yours, Sema. A woman hidden in a world of men, concealing an object that concerns us all. An object that should bring us good fortune and prosperity"

His voice faded away with these words, then he suddenly yelled violently, "Where's the triangle, Sema? Where's my heroin?"

No reaction. The words ran off her like drops of rain. He was not even sure if she was listening to him.

But then she suddenly said, "I don't know"

He smiled again. So she wanted to negotiate.

But she went on, "I was arrested in France. The police brainwashed me, gave some special mental conditioning. I can't remember my past. I don't know where the dope is. I don't even know who I am."

Kudseyi looked over at Azer. He, too, seemed amazed.

"Do you think I'm going to believe such as ridiculous story?" he asked.

"The treatment was a long one," she continued calmly "It's a method of psychic suggestion, using a radioactive product. Most of the people involved in the experiment are now either dead or in prison. You can check if you want. It's been all over the French newspapers these last few days."

Kudseyi weighed up these facts suspiciously. "So did the police get hold of the heroin?"

"They didn't even know that I had a consignment of dope.”

“What?"

"They didn't know who I was. They chose me because they found me in a state of shock, in Gurdilek's baths after Azer's raid. They finished off the task of removing my memory without knowing my secret."

"For someone with no memory, you seem to know a lot."

"I've been investigating myself."

"How did you find out Azer's name?"

Sema smiled, as rapidly as a camera's shutter could snap a picture. "Everyone knows it. Just read the Paris press."

Kudseyi remained silent. He could have asked further questions, but his mind was now made up. His long life had convinced him of an unbreakable law: the more the facts seemed absurd, the greater the chance they were true. But he still did not understand her attitude.