Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

"My name is of no importance."

"Who sent you?"

"Sema."

"But Sema's dead." He could not accept the fact that he had been jumped like this during his secret pilgrimage.

The voice went on. "I'm the woman who helped her in Paris. Who allowed her to escape from the police, to recover her memory, to come back to Turkey to confront you."

The man nodded. Yes, right from the start, there had been a link missing from the story. Sema Hunsen could not have eluded him for such a long time-someone must have helped her.

He blurted out a question, at once regretting his haste: "And the dope… where is it?"

"In a cemetery. In funeral urns. A little white powder amid all the gray powder…"

He nodded again. He recognized Sema's ironic touch, the way she had practiced her trade as if it was a game. It rang true-like a tinkle of crystal. "How did you find me?"

"Sema wrote me a letter. She explained everything. Her origins. Her training. Her specialty. She also gave the names of her former friends-and current enemies."

As she spoke, he noticed a sort of accent, a strange lengthening of final syllables. For a second, he looked at the statues' white eyes. They had not awoken yet.

"Why are you getting involved in all this?" he asked, perplexed. "The story's over. And it finished without your help."

"It's true. I got here too late. But I can still do something for Sema.”

“What's that?"

"Stop you from pursuing your monstrous quest."

He smiled and looked straight at her. She was a large woman, very dark and very beautiful. Her face was pale, crossed by numerous wrinkles, but instead of lessening her allure, these furrows seemed to frame and define it. Such a spectacle took his breath away.

She went on. "I read the newspaper articles in Paris. About the murders of three women. I studied the mutilations you inflicted on them. I'm a psychiatrist. I could give complicated names to your obsessions, your hatred of women… but what would be the point?"

The man understood that she had come there to kill him, that she had tracked him down so as to eliminate him. He was to die at the hands of a woman. But that was impossible. He concentrated on the stone heads. The light would soon bring them to life. Would the giants tell him how to react?

"And you followed me all this way?" he asked to gain some time.

"I had no difficulty locating your company in Istanbul. I knew that you'd go there sooner or later, despite the arrest warrant, despite your situation. When you finally appeared, surrounded by your bodyguards, I kept you in my sights. I followed you, watched you for days. And I realized that I stood no chance of getting near you, and even less of taking you by surprise…"

A strange determination emanated from her words. She was beginning to interest him. He glanced at her again. Through the mist of her breath, another detail struck him. Her overly red mouth, made violet by the cold. Suddenly, that organic color stirred up his hatred for women once more. Like the others, she was a blasphemous creature. An exhibition of temptation, sure of her power…

“And then a miracle happened," she continued. "One morning, you left your hiding place. Alone. And you went to the airport… All I had to do was follow in your steps and buy a ticket for Adana. I supposed that you were going to visit some underground laboratory or training camp. But why go alone? I thought you might be visiting your family. But that seemed unlike you. The only family you now have is a pack of wolves. So what were you up to? In her letter, Sema described you as a hunter from the east, from the region of Adiyaman, who is obsessed with archaeology. While waiting for the departure, I bought some maps and guidebooks. I discovered the site of Nemrut Dagi and its statues. The cracks in the stone reminded me of those disfigured faces. I then realized that these sculptures are your model. The model that structures your insanity. You were going on a pilgrimage to this inaccessible sanctuary. Face-to-face with your own madness."

He had recovered his calm. Yes, he appreciated this woman's singular nature. She had succeeded in hunting him down on his own territory. She had, so to speak, entered into the significance of his pilgrimage. Maybe she was even worthy of being his killer…

He glanced one more time at the statues. Their whiteness now glowed in the sunlight. They had never seemed so strong to him yet so distant. Their silence was confirmation. He had lost. He was no longer worthy of them.

He breathed in deeply and nodded toward them. "Can you feel the power of this place?" Still kneeling, he picked up a handful of pink snow and crushed it through his fingers. "I was born a few miles from here, in the valley. At the time, there were no tourists. I used to come and sit here alone on the terrace. At the foot of these statues, I forged my dreams of power and fire."

"Of blood and murder."

He nodded and smiled.

"We are working for the return of the Turkish empire. We are fighting for the supremacy of our race in the East. Soon, the frontiers of Central Asia will break down. We speak the same language. We have the same cultural roots. We are all descendants of Asena, the white wolf"

"You're just feeding your madness with myths."

"A myth is a reality that has become a legend. A legend can become real. The Wolves are back. The Wolves will save the Turkish people."

"You're just a murderer. A murderer who doesn't the know the price of blood."

Despite the sun, he felt numb, paralyzed by the cold. To his left, he pointed at the ridge of snow, stretching away in the vibrant air. "Long ago, on that terrace, warriors were blessed with the blood of bulls in the name of Apollo-Mithra. It is from this tradition that baptism derives-Christian baptism. Grace is born from blood."

With her free hand, the woman pushed back her black locks. The increasingly bitter cold was digging out and reddening her wrinkles. But that precise geography just made her all the more magnificent. She cocked her gun. In that case, this is a moment for rejoicing. Because blood is about to flow."

"Wait." He still did not understand her audacity, her perseverance. No one takes risks like this. And especially not for a woman you saw for only a couple of days. What did Sema mean to you?"

She hesitated, then tilted her head slightly to one side. She was a friend. Just a friend."

As she spoke. she smiled. And that broad red smile, standing out against the bas-reliefs of the sanctuary, confirmed the truth for him. Her true destiny must also be at stake at that moment. Just as much as his own.

They were both finding their precise positions in an ancient fresco.

He focused on her startling lips. He thought of the wild poppies, the stalks of which his mother used to burn so as to preserve their scarlet color longer.

When the barrel of the.45 erupted, he realized that he was happy to die in the shadow of such a smile.

Was born in Paris 1961. Now an independent international reporter, he worked with magazines all over the world, as well as with various press agencies, before setting up his own news agency. Blood-Red Rivers, his second novel, became a huge bestseller in France and has since made into a film, The Crimson Rivers, directed by Mathieu Kassovitz and starring Jean Reno and Vincent Calles.