Rough Trade (29 page)

Daquin was still in bed. Barely awake. Sounds in the kitchen. Soleiman was making the breakfast. A flood of light through the glass panel in the roof. Soleiman brought the tray up. Naked. Great blue and green bruises on his body. His face still badly marked. He put the tray down on the bed.

‘Come and say good morning to me, my boy.’

*

Both down on their knees, by the low table in the downstairs room. A large map of the Paris area. Photographs. Soleiman spoke, Daquin wrote. For each name, a photo and a record card: address, known activities, descriptions of all habits or individual
characteristics
that it had been possible to discover, possible links with the Association of Lighting Technicians or the shops in Faubourg Saint-Martin. For each card, a cross on the map. Soleiman had added a few names to the list, without photographs. Thirty or so people in all. Sometimes Daquin asked questions. It took three hours to complete everything.

‘Now, let’s tackle Operation Meillant.’

Daquin got up, went to the bookcase and produced a brown envelope from between two big volumes. He took out the photos of Meillant making love with the wife of Jencovitch, the boss of the workshop at the Bouffes du Nord, and put them down on the table.

‘Not bad, quite a feat.’

‘Do you also have a laugh when you show photos of me to your buddies?’

Daquin, suddenly serious, sat down on the sofa.

‘What I’m suggesting to you is a big risk for me. If you continue to persist with your victim mentality, you’re going to feel sorry about the fate of the guy you’re in process of destroying, because you’ll be thinking of yourself, and you’ll feel sorry about your own fate. And inevitably you’ll do stupid things. If you’re incapable of thinking of yourself as anything but a victim you might as well tell me now, Sol, and I’ll stop bothering.’

Subdued activity in the commercial transactions section.

Romero and Marinoni introduced themselves: working on the drugs traffic between Turkey and Iran. Had come to have a chat with specialists, on the spot, in a totally unofficial way. In your opinion is it possible or not that drugs are getting through on a regular basis thanks to big companies officially carrying out
large-scale
international trade?

Some activity in the office. Men coming in, others going out. The customs officers offered coffee. The discussion became general.

‘You know, we only work efficiently through denunciation. Everything happens higher up along the line. When the companies are well known, and the flow of goods is regular, only a minute part of the delivery is checked.’

‘And can the companies know in advance which part?’

Laughter.

‘Yes and no, that depends. And then we have orders to speed up the transactions in the case of some French companies or those very close to them. And besides, we may receive orders that work the other way, when we’re told to be really meticulous with
awkward
foreign companies in order to make them lose a few days, or even a few months, which has happened.’

It was aperitif time. The customs office was fully manned. The name of Turkimport cropped up in conversation. A man of about forty, silent so far, was following their enquiries. He still didn’t say anything, but a little later he announced that he was going off-duty at 1 o’clock. The two inspectors came across him again, as though by accident, in the car-park. He addressed them first: ‘Where can we go for some peace and quiet?’

‘You’re the one who knows the area.’

‘There’s nothing here. Follow me, I’ll take you to the place where I live.’

Ezanville. A few kilometres from the airport. Once a little Ile-
de-France
village, now lost among bungalows and dormitory-style
estates
. A café crammed with people in a deserted street. They sat down at a little table right at the back. The atmosphere was
suffocating
. The customs officer introduced himself: ‘I’m Pascal Dumont. Why are you interested in Turkimport?’

Romero hardly knew what to say.

‘We’re not only interested in Turkimport. It’s just one of the names.’

‘Stop. I’m not stupid. You’ve given up a whole Sunday morning just to pick up something about Turkimport. Now that you’ve got something, take it further. I started work very early this morning, I want to get back home as soon as possible.’

‘Why do you want to talk to cops about Turkimport, outside duty hours?’

Smile. ‘Suspicious, it’s normal. But you’ll have to take risks.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’m over forty, I have a family, I lead a conventional life. It’s just that sometimes I get fed up with being told to be quick, not to try too hard. Customs officers are treated like half-wits. My brother and one of his friends were working on the flight of French capital to Switzerland. With not very orthodox methods, no doubt, but with the green light from their superiors. As long as they discovered accounts held by ordinary French people, all was well, they were heroes. Two weeks ago they brought back a print-out which included the names of members of the government. Three days later they fell into a trap set by the Swiss. They’ve been in prison over there in Basle, for over a week, and everyone’s been letting them down. Not even a word in the papers. There’s a rumour that they’ve been “exchanged” in return for
information
about bent coppers who have bank accounts in Switzerland. I’m helping you about Turkimport because it’s both personal
vendetta
and professional revenge.’

A pause. Romero and Marinoni didn’t react. Dumont went on: ‘I can tell you how the Turkimport business is carried out, at least for the export side. The papers are always in order. Deliveries every week, twenty or so packing-cases. We always check the first one, not the others. For the last two years I’ve been waiting to know what’s inside them.’

‘Why not open them?’

‘Because we have orders. Turkimport is protected.’

‘Who by?’

‘I don’t know exactly. It comes from government departments, probably going through our secret services. Are you really looking for drugs?’

‘Let’s say we are.’

‘I’d be tempted to imagine something else. Illegal transfers of technology, things of that sort. In view of the type of protection.’

‘How are the Turkimport operations carried out?’

‘Every Monday morning twenty cases arrive. Customs inspection. Then they go to the transit area and despatch takes place over a week, depending on the space available in the planes leaving for Istanbul. Turkimport doesn’t have its own airlines. Let’s get some fresh air out on the pavement.’

They stood by the cars.

‘We’ll make a date for tomorrow evening. About 10 o’clock. I’ll take you into the transit zone warehouse area, I’ll manage to leave you alone somewhere and I’ll come back for you about 2 o’clock in the morning. OK with you?’

‘OK with us.’

At 6 p.m. precisely Soleiman, along with two Turkish friends from the Committee, entered the building where Jencovitch had his workroom. The Turkish workers were waiting for them upstairs. Three minutes after Soleiman, Romero, in the uniform of a Telecom worker, came through the door in his turn and went to a dark corner under the main staircase where there was a tangled mass of cables, quite different from the normal security systems in modern blocks. He’d examined them in advance with an expert. He cut the cable which he’d marked with red. From that moment the Jencovitch workroom no longer had a telephone.

Three floors up, Soleiman had just come in. Daquin had warned him: ‘This is the most delicate part of the operation. Don’t let your arrival go wrong.’ The Turks stood up.

‘I don’t mean any harm to anyone. But I’ve got the right to have a man-to-man discussion with that bastard who gets workers roughed up by the cops.’

Stake everything on surprise and speed. The Turks went round the tables and collected anything lying about that could be used as weapons, such as scissors or craft knives.

‘All right then, everyone leave, it’s time.’

Glances at the boss, who was frozen with astonishment. The Africans began the walkout, the Yugoslavs followed, with some encouragement from the Turks. Romero heard them coming down the stairs above his head, looked at his watch and began to time the operation. Daquin had said ten minutes.

Upstairs there was no one left, only Soleiman and the boss,
facing
each other. The latter began to recover.

‘I’ll call the police.’

‘Try, your phone’s cut off.’

The boss rushed over and picked up the receiver: no dialling tone. He went towards the door.

‘No point, the Turks have locked it and you haven’t got your keys any more.’

The boss searched his pockets: no keys.

‘You see, stop worrying and look at these photos.’

And Soleiman put down on a table three large photos and moved one step away.

The boss looked. His wife, his wife totally naked, making love with Meillant. On his own bed. He was livid.

‘Haven’t you ever seen them at it? He’s quite gifted, the Superintendent, even if he looks a quiet fatherly type. I’d be
surprised
if you did all that with your wife.’

Daquin had said: ‘Destroy him utterly before you come to blows, it’s safer.’

The boss, mad with panic and anger, came towards Soleiman.

‘What do you want of me, then? What do you want of me?’

This was the moment. Soleiman wasn’t a fighter. But Daquin had rehearsed him: ‘When he comes close to you, threaten him in the neck, as though you were going to catch hold of him and
strangle
him. Knock him down flat with a kick in the crotch. Knock him down with a single blow.’ The man collapsed, screaming, clutching his crotch. Incredibly easy. Anger and bitterness were satisfied. As the man lay on the floor Soleiman kicked him in the ribs, although he hardly knew why. He caught hold of his shirt and dragged him over to the wall, propped him up, held him with his left hand and struck him hard, three times, with his right. A trace of blood on his hand.

At the bottom of the stairs Romero had reconnected the
telephone
and removed his Telecom worker’s overall. He went out and sat in the unmarked police car which was parked on the other side of the crossroads, by the taxi rank. From there he watched the entrance to the building.

Jencovitch was ready now. He had difficulty in breathing, stabs of pain, blood in his mouth, the image of his wife before his eyes. He didn’t understand anything that was happening to him, he was afraid of dying. Soleiman began to speak: ‘You don’t interest me, it’s Meillant I want. You’re going to tell me now what you’ve been paying Meillant, for how long and what he’s been doing for you in exchange. If you refuse to talk I’ll show the photos tomorrow
morning
to all your workers and in all the Yugoslav cafés. Your wife could always take up a career as a tart, but as for you, you could just pack your bags.’

‘It’s been going on for five years.’ He spat, there was blood in his saliva, he kept his eyes closed. ‘I pay a 1,000 francs a month. I get a warning in advance if there’s to be a work inspection. And if a worker causes me trouble Meillant arrests him. After that the man behaves. Since I’ve been paying I’ve never had any trouble.’

Daquin had told Soleiman: ‘Keep the pressure up all the time, don’t allow him a single moment to recover. He mustn’t stop being frightened.’ Soleiman stood up, caught hold of a wooden chair and smashed it hard against the cutters’ table. Then he took the firmest strut out of it and came up to the man on the floor.

‘Do you realize I could break your limbs without any trouble? You’re on your own. Your wife’s been called in by the police. And she’ll stay there as long as I’m here. There’s nobody in the flat opposite. Do you understand what that means?’ The boss looked at him. ‘You’ll pick up the telephone and call Meillant.’

‘The telephone’s not working.’

‘It is now.’ Soleiman put the instrument down beside the boss and took off the receiver with his foot. The dialling tone could be heard. Soleiman put the receiver back. ‘You see. And Meillant is in his office. In fact he’s waiting for your call. You’ve got to manage somehow, but you must get him to come here. As for me, I’ll leave a tape recorder here and I’ll go into the next room. I want to hear Meillant talking about the money he receives. I want to hear him say he’s a bastard.’

‘I can’t do that.’

No time to finish his sentence. Soleiman caught hold of his left hand, placed it on a corner of the table and brought down the strut from the chair on it. The hand cracked, the boss screamed. No movement in the building. The man sweated and wept.

‘I’ll call. Give me the phone.’

Soleiman handed him the instrument. Jencovitch got Meillant at once. Soleiman didn’t take his eyes off him.

‘I’ve been beaten up … The militants from the Committee … Photos, and they know things … I’m alone, I’m afraid, come, I can’t move … My wife’s being questioned by the police about accounting problems … Yes, please, quickly …’

*

At the station Meillant hung up, looking preoccupied. Opposite him sat Lavorel, who had come to ask his advice about how to stop the circulation of black money between manufacturers and workrooms.

‘I can’t stay, sorry, a very urgent call.’

‘Not to worry, I understand very well, we’ll meet again. Nothing urgent.’

Lavorel went back to passage du Désir to wait for Daquin.

*

Jencovitch had hung up.

‘That’s a good boy.’

With his finger Soleiman wiped the tears away from the man’s face as he lay on the floor. Daquin had told him: ‘Keep him
occupied
until Meillant comes. It’ll take a long time. He mustn’t be allowed to recover.’

‘Tell me what you’re going to say to Meillant when he arrives?’

The boss, who was sweating, didn’t reply. Soleiman caught hold of his injured hand and squeezed it. Another yell.

‘What are you going to say to him?’

‘That I pay him, he must protect me.’

‘What do I want to hear?’

‘Yes, he’s had money, yes, he’s going to protect me.’

Soleiman quickly concealed a miniature tape recorder inside a sewing-machine. ‘If I get the tape I’ll give you the photo and you’ll never see me again. If something goes wrong the photos will go all round the Sentier and my buddies will come back and beat you on the back with iron bars. Can you still manage to understand that?’

The boss signalled that he could.

Soleiman bent over him. A dear memory of an icy day in Istanbul during the winter of ’78–’79, a mob of macho young men attacking gays and he was pushed along the ground against a wall. The assailant who was kicking him bent over, caught hold of him by his balls and yelled: ‘Hey, he’s still got some.’ And then
nothing
, a black hole.

Soleiman smiled and put his hand between the boss’s legs. A look of desperation. Don’t be frightened, you’re not going to die, not just yet. In a rapid movement his hand tightened over one of the balls, and the boss fainted.

Soleiman stood up again, went to the workroom door, took the bunch of keys out of the boss’s jacket, unlocked the door, replaced the keys in the pocket and waited on the landing.

From the other side of the crossroads Romero saw Meillant enter the building. Amazing. The crazy plan seemed to be working. Looking at his watch, he let two minutes go by, then walked calmly towards the building, went in and waited on the landing.

Soleiman heard Meillant coming up. He closed the door again, crossed the room and on the way stroked the boss’s hair: he was still unconscious. ‘Concentrate, it’s the right moment now.’ And he went into the next room. Daquin was there, leaning against a table. Smiled at him. They went to the back of the apartment, opened the service door, locked it again and waited on the landing. Be wary of Meillant, he’s an old hand.

Meillant came in and went straight to Jencovitch, lying
unconscious
against the wall, the telephone on the floor beside him. He looked him over: some pink froth at the corner of his mouth, his left hand out of shape, a swelling between his legs, the guy was clearly in a bad way. Meillant checked that he wasn’t dead and went rapidly round the apartment: one can never be too careful. Nobody there and the service door locked. Came back to Jencovitch who was beginning to come round. Meillant crouched down beside him.

‘What’s happened to you?’ Jencovitch cast a terrified look round. ‘We’re alone, you can talk.’

‘The guy from the other day, the one you threw down the stairs. He came back, with some of his buddies, after the workroom had closed.’ He had difficulty in getting his breath back. ‘They beat me up.’ Meillant waited for the rest. ‘They’ve got photos of you, with my wife, in my bed.’ A series of little sobs.

‘What do they want to do with them?’

‘They want to show them all round the district if I don’t pay.
Commisaire
, if those photos are circulated, I’m a dead man.’ Meillant thought he wouldn’t be too lively, either. ‘
Commissaire
, I’ve paid you 1,000 francs every month for five years.’ Jencovitch clutched Meillant’s jacket with one hand. ‘You know that, don’t you? You haven’t suddenly forgotten?’

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘You’re not going to let me down now?’

‘Let go of me and calm down. No, I’m not going to let you down. When do you have to pay?’

‘Tomorrow morning, here, at 7 o’clock.’

‘And how much?’

‘30,000 francs.’

‘Not too greedy, that means they intend to come back. Tomorrow morning I’ll be there with a few men. We’ll arrest the others, get the photos back by force and we’ll have them deported from France quickly. It won’t be said that anyone can get away with
blackmailing
the people I protect and not be punished for it. Now, I’ll help you get home and your wife will look after you when she comes back.’

There was a sound in the next room. Meillant raised his head and saw Daquin standing I the doorway. He stood up, without a word. Daquin called Romero, who came in.

‘Pick up this guy, get him as far as the local station and record his statement. After that, off to the hospital.’

Romero led Jencovitch away while Daquin took the tape recorder out of the sewing-machine and slipped it into his pocket. Meillant sat down on the corner of the table.

‘I was afraid of some underhand blow but I didn’t think it would come from you. What do you want?’

‘Don’t you want to know first what cards I’m holding?’ Meillant was silent. ‘Nothing very serious in one sense, but they all add up to something that will go down very badly just when the
legalization
of clandestine Turkish workers is being negotiated.’

Daquin put down on the table beside Meillant a photocopy of the accounts page taken from Martens and the photos of Meillant with Madame Jencovitch.

‘You’ve been regularly selling false papers, and some genuine ones as well, to the illegal workers in the Sentier. You make some workroom bosses pay for your protection. You’re very close to Thomas and his late wife, who don’t have a good press in the police force at the moment. I won’t mention how a member of the team negotiating with the ministry was beaten up last Wednesday, right here. As for the activities of your mistress, Anna Beric …’ Meillant reacted to that, ‘she’s a key person in the system of false invoices and black money that the Sentier lives on today. Without going back to the murder of her pimp. And she’s the woman in your life. It’s a rather heavy casebook, don’t you think?’

‘That’s enough, Daquin. What do you want?’

‘Two things. Your resignation. And the return of Anna Beric.’

A long pause for reflection.

‘Why my resignation?’

‘To protect those behind me.’ What would he have said if I’d replied: To please my lover?

Another silence.

‘And what will you give me in exchange?’

‘An honourable reputation, a happy and … prosperous
retirement
. I’ll keep all I know to myself.’

‘What about Anna?’

‘Anna will spend a few months in jail, a year at the very most, before rejoining you. I don’t think that sort of thing will frighten her.’ Meillant shot him a suspicious glance: does he know her? ‘The Sentier’s changing, Meillant. A lot. It’s time to go.’

Meillant looked at his watch: 7 p.m. He picked up the telephone. The director of the urban police forces. He’s left, but would you like his chief secretary? Very well, the chief secretary. Meillant speaking … He had just seen his cardiologist. Serious health
problems
. Very upset by the Thomas incident. Requests early
retirement
and would like to take some leave while waiting for the formalities to be worked out. Call tomorrow at the director’s office? Certainly, he’d be there.