Obsession (Year of Fire) (23 page)

“On that occasion,” Bergman continued, “immigration records showed that the passenger was using an Austrian passport under the name Udo Jürkens. If this Udo Jürkens was actually Ulrich Wendorff,” Bergman went on, “it would be a real stroke of luck. Several different intelligence services have been trying to catch him for years. Some time back he was known to be in Baghdad, in the service of Abu Nidal.” Bergman referred to the man many considered to be the bloodiest Palestinian terrorist of them all. “As was to be expected, the relationship didn’t end well. The last thing we heard was that Abu Nidal had ordered his assassination. Now with this Udo Jürkens wandering around Europe, there seems to be some doubt about that.”

CHAPTER 7

Fergusson Island, part of the D’Entrecasteaux Island group, Papua New Guinea. January 8, 1988.

Eliah Al-Saud was in his small office at the training camp that Mercure ran in the southeast region of Fergusson Island. He had asked to be put through to Medes, his chauffeur, who was in Paris. Impatiently, he strode over to the window. It was a pleasure for him to reflect on what he and his partners had built in so little time. He spotted one of his men encouraging a group of recruits who were going to spend a few days in the dense rainforest, the majority of them Russian or from Eastern European countries that had previously been part of the Communist bloc. The collapse of the Iron Curtain had meant the downfall of the Red Army, leaving thousands of officers and soldiers without work—a ready supply of cheap and highly qualified labor. Likewise, the market had been flooded with weapons and artillery, some of which were stockpiled in Mercure Inc.’s warehouse, yards from his office, in climate-controlled conditions to protect them from the corrosive jungle air.

He stepped a few feet to the right to peer at the nose of Mercure’s latest acquisition, one of the most important investments the business had made in the last year: an old Boeing 747-100 that had belonged to his uncle Fahd, the king of Saudi Arabia, who had sold it to them in exchange for services: guarding pipelines, training a group of air force pilots and making the
Mukhabarat
, the Saudi intelligence service, worthy of the name. “Nephew,” Fahd had said to him, “I want to put the Jordanian services to shame.” Though the market price of such an old jumbo jet, which
would carry military supplies and men to conflict zones, would end up being less than the cost of the services Uncle Fahd demanded, Al-Saud and his partners calculated that winning the king of Saudi Arabia’s favor would reap profits in the future.

An employee knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Al-Saud invited.

“Sir, Lieutenant Dragosi sent me to tell you that the men are ready.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Lieutenant Dragosi, one of the experts who was in charge of the training camp on Fergusson Island, was planning to instruct a group of young men in the art of descending from a helicopter on a rope later that day. He then planned to take them to the mountainous part of the island and teach them the technique of rappelling, which could be used to climb down very steep mountains or buildings. The technique also involved a rope, with the speed of the descent controlled entirely with the legs.

Diana came in without knocking. She was wearing military brown-and-green fatigues, black boots and a khaki hat.

“Eliah, the operator says that your call to Paris is ready.”

They left the office together and headed over to the other part of the barracks, where the communications center was located. The contrast between the climate-controlled environment in the office and the heat outside was breathtaking. The temperature became unbearable in the early hours of the afternoon; humidity thickened the air, the wind stopped blowing and the distinctive smell of the jungle grew more pungent, sticking to bodies and objects. Just the same, Al-Saud had no reason to complain. Mercure’s partnership with the Papua New Guinea government had been very beneficial for them. Not only was the business legally based in the country, to avoid taxes and possible contractual lawsuits, but for a risible annual fee they also rented a large piece of land on this island; they had set up their training center and weapons warehouse on the ruins of a base that had seen heavy use during the Second World War. Mercure Inc. signed its first major contract with the Papua New Guinea government thanks to Michael Thorton’s contacts. For thirty-six million dollars, the business had been contracted to eliminate a rebel group, which had been achieved earlier than planned. It had been a resounding success, and they were still reaping its benefits in the form of a grateful government.

The communications center was equipped with several satellite telephones, satellite dishes, short- and long-wave radios and as much technology as Alamán could get his hands on in order to stay in touch with his troops on missions all over the world. The operator passed him the satellite phone, which was similar to a cordless but had a thicker antenna. Al-Saud glanced at his Breitling Emergency watch, which displayed both local and French time. It was five in the morning in France, as the country was ten hours behind Papua New Guinea. The call had woken Medes. He regretted it, but he was anxious and wanted to know how she was doing. He spoke to him in Arabic.

“Medes.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Tell me what news you have.”

“Nothing new. The young ladies went to the Healing Hands headquarters until noon, then they went to the same language institute they went to yesterday and then they went back to the apartment on Rue Toullier, around nine o’ clock at night.”

“Nothing regarding the owner of the BMW?”

“Nothing, sir. As I said yesterday, I reviewed the photographs I took on January first at Charles de Gaulle and the license plate is correct. Your friend Edmé de Florian confirmed that that vehicle belongs to René Sampler.”

“Stay close to them. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He left the communications center in the direction of the runway where they kept the UH-60, a small helicopter made by Sikorsky, better known as a Black Hawk. The noise of the rotors slicing through the air deafened him. He put on his helmet and climbed into the aircraft. Diana jumped up after him. The men weren’t surprised; they were used to including her in their exercises. It didn’t occur to anyone to give her preferential treatment or to make the tests easier for her; she had already shown that she was better than most of them. Some of them had tried to get clever with her and had ended up with a boot on their necks. Although they hardly saw them say anything to each other and they never touched, or even smiled, the men presumed that Al-Saud and Diana were lovers.

Al-Saud exchanged a few words with Lieutenant Dragosi before ordering the pilot to take off. The noise of the helicopter drowned out all other sounds, except the one echoing around his head.
Matilde, Matilde.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before—this total loss of concentration was completely new to him. Beads of sweat soaked the shirt under his military outfit, more sweat dampened his forehead and got in his eyes, his feet throbbed inside his boots, but nothing bothered him like Matilde. He took off his Ray-Ban Clippers, wiped his forehead with the back of a hand wrapped in a handkerchief and replaced the sunglasses. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to remember.

On Sunday night, after he had heard her say Roy’s name over the phone, his pride wounded by being stood up, he had left Paris to take care of some business on the Fergusson base. He had needed to get some space, to get away from her. He was starting to act like an idiot. It hadn’t helped at all. Her image had followed him to this remote Pacific island. When Medes had told him on Tuesday that the young ladies, Mr. Shiloah Moses and René Sampler, the owner of the BMW who had picked them up from Charles de Gaulle, had gone to the Galeries Lafayette and that Mr. Sampler had spent a fortune on clothes and shoes for the young blonde lady, he thought he was going to lose it. That son of a bitch was buying Matilde clothes. A red mist descended.

“Diana, tell the telephone operator to get Mr. Moses at the George V! Right now!” His shouted order surprised the employees, because he never raised his voice.

The operator had taken some time to reach Shiloah.

“What are you talking about, Eliah? What René Sampler? The man who went with us to the Galeries Lafayette yesterday was named Ezequiel, a very nice Argentinean fellow.”

“Is he Matilde’s boyfriend?”

“I wouldn’t say so. They seemed to have a more fraternal bond. How do you know all this?”

“Your bodyguards told me,” he had lied.

Besides one soldier twisting his ankle, the training mission went off without a hitch. They came back dirty, sweating and exhausted. All Al-Saud could think about was jumping into a Jeep and driving a few miles away to get to a clearing where a waterfall fell into a cool small pond
hidden behind a curtain of tropical plants. The operator stuck his head out of the window of the communications center.

“Sir, there’s a call for you from Paris. Shiloah Moses.”

He immediately thought of Matilde, and a lump formed in his throat. He tossed his helmet to Diana and ran the last few feet.

“Shiloah. It’s Eliah. What happened?”

“Hello,
mon frère
. How are you? A little calmer than yesterday?”

“Yes, yes. What’s going on?”

“I just spoke to my friend in Tel Aviv, the manager at El Al.”

“What phone are you calling me from?” Al-Saud worried.

“Mike’s phone in the George V offices, he told me it was a secure line.”

“Yes, it is. Continue.”

“You were right, there was a fourth man on Flight 2681. It was very tough for my friend to get the information. Anyway, it was impossible for him to find out who it was. The case is shut tight and padlocked, and my friend was afraid to continue the investigation.”

“I understand. Thank you, brother.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m still not sure. How are the preparations for the convention going?”

“Extremely well. My assistants and lawyers are busy finalizing all the details.”

He wanted to ask him about Matilde, but his pride stayed the impulse. They said good-bye. Al-Saud walked over to the room where the radio was kept and closed the door. He looked at the time in Paris. He needed to reach Vladimir Chevrikov. Luckily, he found him at home.

“Lefortovo, it’s Horse of Fire, switch to a secure UHF band.”

That Vladimir had chosen for his nom de guerre the prison where he had been tortured and confined for years was an indication of his complex personality. Eliah Al-Saud respected him to degree he accorded to few others, not only for the fact that he was a master forger, but also for his peerless network of connections and information. Vladimir seemed to know what went on behind scenes in the politics of the majority of countries across the world.

“Ready,” Chevrikov said. “We’re clear to speak.”

“Do you remember the El Al plane that crashed in Amsterdam two years ago?” The Russian did. “El Al’s spokesmen and the Schiphol authorities reported that there were only three passengers. It turns out that there was a fourth.” After a silence, Al-Saud made his request: “I need you to contact Yaakov Merari. He can give us the name of that fourth passenger. It’s very important.”

Yaakov Merari was an undercover Mossad agent in Damascus. Chevrikov would occasionally blackmail him to obtain free, first-rate information. Vladimir didn’t just threaten to reveal his identity to the Syrian Secret Service, the cruelest in the Middle East, but also to denounce him to the Mossad authorities, because Merari had spent years collecting significant sums from his government to pay a Syrian informant who didn’t really exist. Vladimir knew this because Merari had occasionally asked him to draw up documentation to support the false reports that he handed in to Mossad.

“If anyone can get us the name of the fourth passenger,” Chevrikov promised, “it’s dear old Yaakov.”

Of course, Vladimir Chevrikov’s involvement wasn’t free.

“The same fee in the usual manner?” Al-Saud asked.

“That’ll be fine, old friend. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”

An hour later, Eliah was standing on a rock, completely naked, surrendering to the waterfall’s energy. He wasn’t trying to resist thinking about Matilde anymore and, like the water, he allowed the memories to surge over him. Her innocence and apparent weakness goaded the Horse of Fire that dwelled within him. Matilde was a challenge, and Eliah couldn’t turn back now. He had to have her. It was in his nature.

It had been a week since she had seen Eliah Al-Saud, and although she had been caught up in other things, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head. That Saturday afternoon she went by the perfume stores in Galeries Lafayette to douse his handkerchief and her glove in A*Men again. She felt pathetic doing it, but couldn’t stop herself. She saw the black bottle next to others by Thierry Mugler and gravitated toward it. The clerk, who was helping another client, didn’t notice how avidly she depressed the plunger.
The atomized perfume floated up around her and enveloped her. She closed her eyes and once more felt his embrace on her body. Eliah Al-Saud was vain and obstinate.
“Why are you rejecting me? I can’t stand it.”
The memory made her feel tenderly toward him: he did not countenance the possibility of a woman rejecting him, he was like a little boy with his heart set on a toy. If he knew how much she had thought about him and wanted him since the very first day, his arrogance would have known no limit. Her longing grew keener, leaving her powerless to resist. She had never felt something like this for a man. He exuded a kind of crude magnetism. Now she understood the passion that Juana and Jorge had shared.