Rough Trade (34 page)

Noted with half an eye in
Lib
é
ration
…

*

Attali, who had been somewhat tested by his New York trip, had asked for a few days’ leave, which he was spending with his family at Antony. Romero had taken a day off too. The Official Travel Service had grilled Kashguri’s two menservants, in vain. Daquin, alone in his office, was working on photocopies of Bertrand’s
personal
papers. Without much conviction. The ending of any affair is always bitter, but he felt totally apathetic. Kashguri and Agça had disappeared, and for the time being there wasn’t the slightest sign of a clue. Baker had died in New York and he hadn’t even seen him once. Bertrand had committed suicide or his suicide had been arranged before he could arrest him. Frustration and more frustration.

Romero appeared at the door of his office.

‘Chief, may I disturb you for a few moments?’

Daquin indicated that he could.

Romero stepped back and showed in a woman, a bunch of curly red hair, white skin, golden eyes. Daquin stood up, fascinated.

‘Chief, let me introduce Yildiz, we’re going to get married, and I should like you to be my witness.’

Once they had left Daquin closed his files and decided to start his weekend at once.

The Official Travel people were tensed up.

‘All security measures have been reviewed and strengthened. We have two facts on our side. The first is that Agça doesn’t speak French and will find himself very isolated, because you’ve arrested most of the people he knew in Paris. We’ve arranged surveillance of all the remaining militants and extreme right Turkish areas in Paris, so far without results. Second fact: Agça is a bad shot. If we succeed in always keeping the Pope away from contact with the crowds, we can avoid catastrophe. We’ve planned to use helicopters and cars for his journeys: access will be carefully controlled:
invitation
only or passes. Twenty thousand volunteer lookout men have been taken on, plus three thousand state security police and five hundred plainclothes inspectors. There will be two very delicate moments because it will be difficult to keep the Pope at a distance: the meeting with the Polish community at the Champ-de-Mars, and the visit to Saint-Denis where the Pope is meeting the
immigrants
… you can see the sort of thing …’

‘It’s all the better that Agça, on the whole, looks very like an immigrant … Less like a Pole.’

‘For Saint-Denis we’ve informed the local council who are calling in the disciplinary services of the Communist Party.’

‘Well, then, everything’s going well.’

‘Every police force in France has received a photo of Agça. But we’ve still had no response. And about your side?’

‘On my side, nothing. I must tell you that since the death of Bertrand I’ve had no ideas. And I’m somewhat unmotivated.’

*

Telephone call from the chief of Drugs. He’d just been informed that Iran was asking officially for the extradition of Kashguri on charges of drug trafficking. Daquin made himself coffee and, in his armchair thought vaguely about Lespinois, who must be
negotiating
hard at this moment. With the Islamists, against Parillaud. Like the CIA in Afghanistan, against the Soviets … The drug traffic forming an element not to be neglected in confused strategies. And suddenly he had an idea. He searched through his files, found the address and telephone number of Oumourzarov and called his
office
at La Défense. The secretary. A wait.

‘Oumourzarov here. What do you want of me,
commissaire
?’ Slightly aggressive.

‘I should like to meet you and have a talk. There’s nothing
official
about this, and frankly, I haven’t told my superiors about it. They would certainly not have authorized me to telephone you.’

A long silence.

‘Tomorrow, for an aperitif, 7 o’clock, at my place. You know the address.’

Daquin rang the bell. A click, the impressive black metal door opened, he went in. A servant wearing black trousers and a white jacket came to meet him. ‘Monsieur is waiting for you in the
garden
,’ and led him to the edge of the lake. There, beneath a chestnut tree, a garden table and armchairs on the lawn. Grey-blue lake beyond the tree-trunks. The water lapped against the stone wall. Oumazarov stood up to greet him and shook his hand. Very much the traditional businessman, young and dynamic. Daquin
remembered
having seen him on 4 April, in Kashguri’s apartment, then in the Drugs Squad offices, before he was released after a firm intervention by the Minister of Defence.

‘
Commissaire
, delighted to make your acquaintance in
circumstances
, let us say, acceptable for me. You’ve given me a few problems lately but you’ve given your government even more. Are you behind the Anglo-Saxon press campaign denouncing the violation by the French government of the embargo on weapons destined for Iran?’

‘No, I’ve got nothing to do with that. My government does what it considers right in that field. I only crossed your path when Carim and Bodrum, whom you know well, might possibly have taken part in the murder of Sener.’

He was irritated. ‘Since then the French police have officially admitted the responsibility of the Armenian terrorists and the
question
is closed. Therefore you didn’t come to talk to me about that.’

‘True.’ At the mention of Sener it was the sumptuous Yildiz whom he saw in his mind’s eye. Double game, Romero had said. Could it have been triple? ‘I came to give you two items of news, which I’d like to discuss with you. First, Iran has just officially
requested
the extradition of Kashguri. Do you see what that means?’

The footman arrived, carrying a tray with glasses and an
ice-bucket
.

‘Put all that down and leave us. What can I offer you?’

‘Vodka with ice, thank you.’

‘So, what does this mean, in your opinion?’

‘That the Islamists are definitely rejecting the pro-Westerners and the moderates, and in future it will be necessary to go through them in order to conduct business in Iran. It will soon be a
disadvantage
to be linked to Parillaud or the Bank of Cyprus and the East.’

Oumourzarov prepared the glasses. They began to drink in silence.

‘And your second item of news?’

‘Kashguri has used the services of a Turkish extremist who had assassinated two of his compatriots here in France, and I think he had also executed Sener. His name is Ali Agça.’ Oumourzarov did not react. ‘We think that the said Ali Agça intends to assassinate the Pope during his visit to Paris.’

Oumourzarov put down his glass in surprise.

‘Are you serious?’

‘I fear I am.’

And Daquin gave a rapid description of the letter to the
Milliyet
and his recent visit to the Turkish police.

‘I agree that it’s hard to believe. But admit that if this did happen it would deal a very severe blow to certain Turkish interests in France. In plain words that makes two good reasons why you might risk finding yourself in the uncomfortable role of scapegoat.’

‘
Commissaire
, I don’t regret meeting you, I’m not bored for one moment in your company. Tell me now why you’re here, apart from the passionate interest you feel for the Turks living in France.’

‘Good question.’ Awareness of absence and emptiness. ‘My
request
is very simple. In the discussions you may have had with Kashguri can you remember anything, even apparently harmless, which could help me in finding Kashguri or Agça? An allusion, a joke, anything at all?’

A long silence. The two men finished their drinks, sipping slowly while looking at the lake, luminous, without a ripple. A very
beautiful
spring evening.

‘Kashguri never spoke to me about Agça. For the good reason that he didn’t know him. Only one person spoke to me about Agça, and that was Bertrand.’

Oumourzarov let Daquin absorb the news and then went on: ‘It was right here, he was sitting in your place. He described him to me as a very strange fanatic.’ Detached tone of voice. ‘And he told me that here in France his only acquaintances were the Catholic fundamentalists. That made me laugh, for I’m totally secular. But there may be some connection with your story about the
assassination
of the Pope.’ A pause. ‘Would you like to stay to dinner with us,
commissaire
? My wife would be delighted to make your acquaintance.’

Daquin earned more scepticism than enthusiasm from the people in charge of Official Travel.

‘Search among the Catholic fundamentalists? What are your sources?’

‘No source I can quote.’

‘We’ve got no files about the fundamentalists. And what can a nationalist Turk, an Islamist, possibly have in common with Catholic fundamentalists?’

‘I’ve no idea, it’s not my culture. Do what you like about it.’

Conviction that they would do nothing.

*

Soleiman went into the local squad office. He had come to settle once and for all the question of the machine-gun attack on the Association of Electrical Technicians, which had since been
assimilated
with provocation by the Turkish extreme right. An office on the second floor, an inspector with a typewriter, a statement. On that day, at that time, he was at the Committee office, surrounded with many witnesses. Signature. Soleiman went out. By the door a young cop in plain clothes looked at him with curiosity.

‘Monsieur Keyder?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Superintendent Daquin would like to make your acquaintance and asks if you would kindly go to his office.’

‘After you.’

Third floor. He recognized the glass door. As though it were yesterday. He fingered his upper lip. Felt his moustache, now
growing
again, to give himself confidence. The young cop left him. Daquin, seated behind his desk, watched him come in. He doesn’t belong to me any more. It’s still my jacket. But he’s got his
moustache
back already.

Soleiman sat down. Daquin took a file from a drawer in his desk and pushed it over to him.

‘That’s the original of the file about you kept by the Turkish police. If you want to go back to your own country one day, you can do so more or less safely.’

Soleiman didn’t dare believe it. Placed his hand on the file.

‘How did you manage it?’

‘That’s my business.’

Soleiman opened the file and leafed through it. A kind of mist before his eyes.

‘There aren’t any photos. I haven’t kept them as a souvenir, there never were any.’

Soleiman was struck dumb. Got up, took the file, stuffed it inside his jacket and left almost at a run.

Press conference. The Committee officially announced the success of their action and the beginning of legalized status for the Sentier workers. The Trades Union Confederations had sent
representatives
, there were many journalists from the newspapers, the radio and the television. Soleiman presided from the platform. He was the hero of the day. The file, that was still there between his jacket and his shirt, gave him a sensation of liberty.

Exciting. Four months that have changed my life. Here, nobody knows me. For them I’m only a militant. A machine for thinking and speaking, and that’s all. I’ll keep the memory of the Sentier like that of a warm stomach, the atmosphere of the streets, the cafés, the workrooms. And the memory of Daquin. His hand. The weight of his body. His gaze.

Daquin on the telephone. He was looking for people who knew the French Catholic fundamentalists and were capable of talking about them in a language he could understand. In the end he came to the Jesuits. He made an appointment for the following morning with a senior member of the Order, the spokesman for the French bishops.

Daquin had recalled his troops. In the absence of Lavorel they were reduced to Romero and Attali, both somewhat rested but lacking in punch. Daquin spoke to them quickly about the clue involving the Catholic fundamentalists, without giving his sources. Polite
scepticism
. He presented them with a summary of the various current fundamentalist attitudes, at least as far as he had understood them that morning. They took notes, they concentrated, without
enthusiasm
. Finally Daquin produced a map of France on which he had marked the location of fundamentalist groups with different colours indicating various shades of opinion. Pink for those closest to orthodoxy, dark red for those most hostile to the Vatican.

‘Good. There are three of us. The other police departments are not interested in my idea. Neither are you, either, but I’m your superior within the hierarchy. We’ve only time for one operation. Where shall we go?’

Attali bent over the map, suddenly interested.

‘To Rouen, obviously.’

‘I agree, to Rouen. Father Juan Roth Gomez runs a
fundamentalist
parish there. He was consecrated priest by Monsignor Lefebvre but left Ecône because he found the community too moderate. He’s close to the “Sedes Vacans” group who regard the Pope as heretic from the time of Vatican II. He’s a Spaniard. He’s travelled widely in Europe and has recently been staying in Germany from where his father came. On the way to Rouen, the corpses of Celebi and VL. Rouen, not far from Paris. If Agça is somewhere, he’s there. And the Pope arrives in Paris tomorrow. Romero, telephone your chum Petitjean. We’re going to call on him this afternoon. In the mean time I’m going to take you for a quick snack, to raise the morale of the troops.’