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her?’
    ‘She lives at 21 rue Raynouard, in Paris.’
    Daquin signed to the cop waiting at the door.
    ‘Take him away, and warn the nick he’s agreed to testify so they must treat him properly.’

7 p.m. Villa des Artistes
     
    Daquin’s waiting for Soleiman, as he prepares a meal. Vegetable soup with Tomme cheese from the Savoy, a genuine low-fat Tomme, such a rarity in Paris he couldn’t resist it. And salami. Not much in the mood for cooking tonight. Remember to ask Soleiman whether or not he eats pork.
    He’s listening to the news on the radio, only half concentrating. The chief of the Belgian drug squad has just been accused of drug trafficking. What a laugh. The American hostages in Tehran have been handed over to the Revolutionary Council. Good luck, comrades . Rain begins to fall against the window.
    With the news finished, the doorbell rings twice. Soleiman comes in, closes the door behind him. He’s standing stock still, looking grim, ill at ease, his hair streaming, soaked to the bone in his shabby pullover. He’s even shivering with cold.
    ‘Come on, you bloody fool. Go and have a hot bath; there are towels up there and my dressing-gown. And have a shave. You’re a disgrace with your two-day-old beard. Dinner’s ready in a quarter of an hour.’
    Soleiman goes upstairs. He hasn’t uttered a word.
    After a shower, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror in a splendid dressing-gown – it’s blue with fine black stripes and much too big for him – looking at his reflection as he shaves.
    He can see himself again, in Daquin’s office, cornered, trapped, and his mind trying to function, but it isn’t easy. If it really is the extreme right trafficking in drugs … and nothing else. He can still hear Daquin making a date at his place, and adding, ‘Before you come, shave off your moustache, I don’t like men with moustaches.’ It had taken a few long seconds to realise the implications. He’d wanted to kill himself. And then he’d come to with a jolt: not now, not when the Sentier’s beginning to move, not when people are beginning to trust him. After all, Daquin wouldn’t be the first he’d gone to bed with. He must just close his eyes. Let it happen. Wait.
    He gently rubs his lips. He has a frantic need for a smoke. But Daquin’s made it clear: ‘No cigarettes at my place. I can’t stand the smell of stale tobacco in my house.’
    At the table, Soleiman eats in silence. He always gives the impression he doesn’t give a toss about what he’s eating. Daquin watches him throughout the meal. He waits fairly patiently for Soleiman to tell him what he has to say. It’s just before coffee that it comes out.
    ‘Two days ago now, I was asked to represent the Committee on the negotiations team that’s meeting at the Ministry.’ Daquin says nothing and continues watching him. Is that all? No reaction?
    ‘Listen, Sol. That’s your business, not mine.’
    ‘You’re not going to phone them and tell them I’m a murderer?’
    Daquin looks at him incredulously.
    ‘What’re you playing at? Frightening yourself? Come.’ He stands up. ‘We’ll have coffee.’ They sit side by side on the couch. On the low table is a packet of photos.
    ‘Look at these photos carefully and tell me if you recognize anyone.’
    ‘Where were they taken?’
    ‘You’ll see afterwards.’
    One by one, the photos slowly pass through Soleiman’s hands. Their quality varies.
    ‘This guy here – he’s one of the three in charge of the Association of Lighting Technicians.’
    ‘Explain.’
    Daquin puts the photo to one side. Soleiman explains the Grey Wolves Fascists in Turkey, the infiltration of Turkish immigrants … the murders of left-wing militants in Germany. Last November the association established a base here, near rue de Château d’Eau. They work with the CFT at Aulnay. Daquin writes it all down in his notebook.
    ‘D’you know his name?’
    ‘Yes. It’s Hassan Yüçel.’
    ‘Go on.’
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