The Empire of the Wolves

Anna Heymes, the wife of a top-ranking Parisian official, suffers from amnesia and terrifying hallucinations. In an effort to understand her malady, a psychiatrist performs a series of tests, which reveal that she has undergone drastic cosmetic surgery, totally transforming her appearance. When, where, and why, Anna cannot remember. In the Turkish district of Paris, two policemen investigate the brutal murders of three women from the tenth arrondissement's underground workshops. At the heart of their investigation is a powerful and ruthless group of right-wing Turkish mafia members, the "Grey Wolves," who are involved in every conceivable manner of illegal trafficking. The link between Anna and the three murders becomes increasingly clear as her past is revealed and each of these characters -- prey and predator, manipulated and manipulator -- race toward an astonishing and horrible collision in the murky streets of a clandestine Paris and in the shadowy confines of Istanbul.

The Empire of the Wolves Intl
A Novel

Chapter One

"Red."

Anna Heymes was feeling increasingly ill at ease. The experiment wasdanger free, but the idea that someone could read her mind at that verymoment deeply disturbed her.

"Blue."

She was lying on a stainless-steel table, in the middle of a shadowyroom, her head inside the central opening of a white circular machine.Just above her face was a mirror, fixed at an angle, with small squares beingprojected onto it. All she had to do was announce what color they were.

"Yellow."

A drip was slowly pouring into her left arm. Dr. Eric Ackermann hadbriefly explained to her that it was labeled water, allowing blood flow tobe located in her brain.

Other colors appeared. Green. Orange. Pink ... then the mirrorwent dark.

Anna remained still, her arms by her sides, as though in a coffin. Afew yards to her left, she could make out the vague, aquatic glassiness ofthe cabin where Eric Ackermann was sitting beside her husband, Laurent.She pictured the two men staring at the observation screens,observing the activity of her neurons. She felt spied on, pillaged, asthough defiled in her closest intimacy.

Ackermann's voice echoed in the transmitter fitted in her ear: "That'sfine, Anna. Now the squares are going to start shifting around. You justhave to describe the movements. Just use one word at a time: right, left, up,down... ."

The geometric shapes immediately started moving, forming abrightly colored mosaic, as vibrant and fluid as a school of tiny fish. Intothe mike attached to her transmitter she said, "Right."

Then the squares rose to the top of the frame.

"Up."

The exercise went on for a few minutes. She spoke slowly, monotonously,feeling more and more drowsy, the heat from the mirror addingto her torpor. She was about to drift off to sleep.

"Perfect," Ackermann said. "This time, I'm going to present you witha story told in a variety of different ways. Listen to each one carefully."

"And what am I supposed to say?"

"Nothing. Just listen."

A few seconds later, a female voice echoed in her receiver. It wasspeaking in a foreign language, with an Asian tonality.

A short silence followed. Then the story started again in French. Butthe syntax was all wrong. The verbs were all in the infinitive, the articlesdid not agree, the liaisons were incorrect... .

Anna tried to decipher this pidgin, but then another version started up.This time, nonsense words cropped up in the tale... . What did it all mean?Suddenly, silence filled her ears, making the cylinder feel even darker.

After a time, the doctor said: "Next test. When you hear the name ofa country, give me its capital."

Anna was about to agree, but the first name was already ringing in herears: "Sweden." Without thinking, she replied: "Stockholm."

"Venezuela."

"Caracas."

"New Zealand."

"Auckland -- no, Wellington."

"Senegal."

"Dakar."

The capitals came to mind easily. Her answers were automatic, andshe was pleased with the result. So her memory had not been completelylost. What could Ackermann and Laurent see on the screens? Whichzones were being activated in her brain?

"Last test," the neurologist announced. "Some faces are going toappear. You must name them as quickly as you can."

She had read somewhere that a simple sign—a word, a gesture, avisual detail—could trigger a phobia. It was what psychiatrists called ananxiety signal. Signal was the right word. In her case, the very word face was enough to make her uneasy. She immediately felt she was suffocating.Her stomach became heavy, her limbs stiffened, and a burning lumpfilled her throat... .

A black-and-white portrait of a woman appeared in the mirror.Blond curls, sultry lips, beauty spot above her mouth. Easy.

"Marilyn Monroe."

An engraving replaced the photograph. Dark look, square jaws,wavy hair.

"Beethoven."

A round face, as smooth as cellophane, with two slanting eyes.

"Mao Tse-tung."

Anna was surprised that she could recognise them so easily. Othersfollowed: Michael Jackson, the Mona Lisa, Albert Einstein... . It felt asthough she were looking at the bright projections of a magic lantern. Shereplied unhesitatingly. Her uneasiness was receding.

Then suddenly, a portrait brought her to a halt. A man aged aboutforty, but with still-youthful looks and prominent eyes. His fair hair andeyebrows added to his look of an indecisive teenager.

A sensation of fear went through her, like an electric shock. Painpressed down on her chest. The face looked familiar, but she could putno name to it. It evoked no precise memories. Her head was a dark tunnel.Where had she seen this man before? Was he an actor? A singer? Anold acquaintance? The picture was replaced by a long face, topped withround glasses. Her mouth dry, she answered, "John Lennon."

The doctor finally replied. "It was Laurent, Anna. Laurent Heymes.Your husband."

The Empire of the Wolves Intl
A Novel. Copyright © by Jean-Christophe Grange. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from The Empire of the Wolves Intl: A Novel by Jean-Christophe Grange
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