Obsession (Year of Fire) (25 page)

“Someone interested in exposing the truth about El Al flight 2681. Which is why I need your help.”

“What have I got to do with that flight?”

“Yarón Gobi was on that flight, your friend. He died in the accident. And you know that. That stuff about treason and exile in Libya was a complete lie. They discredited him to cover themselves.”

“They stained his memory!” the scientist said angrily. “They dragged his good name through the mud. And they turned my life into a hell. I’m under constant surveillance. They…they know that Yarón and I…”

“That you were lovers.”

Al-Saud saw Bouchiki trying to make him out in the shadows.

“I’m under constant surveillance,” he insisted.

“I know. Your house is very likely filled with cameras and microphones. That’s why I wanted to meet you here.”

“I can’t do anything. What do you want?”

“What was the plane carrying when it crashed into Bijlmer?”

Bouchiki puffed twice more on his cigarette, seemingly coming to a decision. Finally, he answered, “The components to manufacture various nerve agents.”

“For example?”

“Tabun, soman, sarin…the list is long. One drop of these agents on your skin and you’re dead in minutes.”

“Which was what happened to Khaled Meshaal in Amman last year.” Al-Saud referred to a high-level director in the Palestinian party Hamas. “Except Meshaal didn’t die.”

The man nodded as he inhaled deeply.

“Mossad injected a few drops of VX behind his ear. VX is highly lethal in liquid form.”

“The Institute of Biological Research got him the antidote?”

“That’s right. When the Jordanian police caught the Mossad agents, King Hussein apparently called Netanyahu in a rage, demanding the antidote. We make both the poison and the antidote at the institute. We got it to him in a few hours, saving Meshaal’s life.”

“Why do you make these agents?”

“We don’t ask those kinds of questions at the Institute.”

“Who provides the components for the gases?”

“Two laboratories, one in America and the other in Argentina. The last shipment, which Yarón was supposed to monitor and protect, was provided by the one in Argentina.”

“Blahetter Chemicals?”

“I see you’re informed.”

“Do they have an inventory or any other record of these ingredients?”

“Of course, in detail.”

“Could you get copies of those documents?”

“I repeat, I’ve been under constant surveillance for the last two years. At the institute they even watch me when I go to the bathroom.”

“In your everyday work, do you come into contact with these documents?”

“Yes, but they won’t let me photocopy it.”

“You won’t have to. Come closer, Bouchiki. I have to show you something.” Al-Saud emerged from the shadows; the balaclava hid his face. “This is a pen, but if you press this switch, the nib is replaced with a camera. Every time you press the button, it will take a photograph.”

“Sounds easy. What would I get in exchange for risking my neck? Who are you?”

“I’m the man offering to clear Gobi’s name. But more than that, I can offer you a sizable sum of money and a new identity.”

Now that he had gotten closer, Eliah could see the anxiety in the man’s movements. He was like a desperate, cornered animal who had resorted to drink to numb his pain.

“Why did you report Gobi’s disappearance when you knew he was on the plane that crashed into Bijlmer?”

“They made me.”

“Mossad?”

“They didn’t do me the courtesy of introducing themselves. They just threatened me and told me what to do. How much money is on offer for these photographs?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

Bouchiki let out a forced laugh.

“Five hundred thousand is what you’ll have to give me in advance just to take the photographs. Without that, I won’t lift a finger. The total ought to be about three million.”

“One,” Al-Saud haggled. “Five hundred thousand now and the rest on completion of the work.”

“Five hundred thousand now,” the scientist agreed, “and one million on completion of the work.”

Suddenly, Bouchiki’s inebriated, run-down appearance had transformed; he now looked alert and clear-minded.

“Fine. As soon as we ascertain the validity of the photographs, a million dollars will be sent to a numbered account at the Credit Suisse Bank in Geneva. Plus we’ll give you a passport with a new identity and a driver’s license.” He gave him the pen and repeated the instructions.

“In twenty days I’m going to Cairo for a seminar on nanotechnology at the Hotel Semiramis Intercontinental,” Bouchiki informed him.
“As I’ve kept my mouth shut and met their demands for two years, they approved this trip.”

“They’ll still be watching you.”

“Yes, but in a different city, in the middle of a symposium with five hundred scientists. The handoff will be easier in a hotel full of people than in Ness-Ziona.”

“That’s where we’ll do it, then.”

“Another thing: you’ll be in charge of getting me out of Cairo and to the Caribbean.”

“You can count on it.”

Bouchiki suddenly frowned and his face returned to its previous, shadowy expression; Al-Saud worried that he had changed his mind.

“How can I trust you? How can I be sure that you’ve deposited the money? And if you do deposit it, how do I know that you won’t take the funds back later?”

“Dr. Bouchiki, within three days, use someone else’s IP address—your friend the waiter from the bar’s, for example—and find the phone number for Credit Suisse in Geneva on the Internet. Call that number from an untapped phone and ask for Filippo Maréchal. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I could use my colleague’s telephone. I know his password.”

“Perfect. As I said, Filippo Maréchal will be the official in charge of your account. Mention the day and month of Dr. Gobi’s birthday and give his first name, Yarón. Remember what I just told you. That will serve as a password until you change it to something else. Filippo will be one of the only people at the bank who knows that you are the person behind your account number. If you want to be even safer, you can close that account and open another; I’ll leave it up to you. Whatever you decide, Filippo will verify that we have deposited the first five hundred thousand and he’ll help you to change the password and the security questions. Filippo has worked at Credit Suisse for thirty years. He won’t stain his spotless career for a few cents. As for the remaining million, as soon as it’s deposited, you can call Filippo from the Intercontinental in Cairo and ask him for confirmation that the money has entered the account.”

“In three days,” Bouchiki said, “when he confirms that the five hundred thousand has arrived in my account, I’ll start to act.”

“The person who contacts you at the Intercontinental will say to you, ‘Diana and Artemis are the same goddess.’ Memorize it. Give the pen to that person. In the meantime, I suggest that you don’t speak to anyone and quit drinking. Drunks have loose tongues. In your case, Dr. Bouchiki, it could cost you your life.”

An agent from the
Aman
, Israeli military intelligence, was getting ready to skim the report on general aviation movements—private and corporate planes—from the last five days at Ben Gurion Airport when a name jumped out at him: Mercure Inc. The plane, a Learjet 45, was licensed to Papua New Guinea.

He picked up the phone and called the private line of his friend Ariel Bergman at The Hague. At a meeting a few days before in Tel Aviv, Bergman had told him about one Eliah Al-Saud, the manager of a private military business, Mercure Inc., whom they were monitoring because of some possible inquiries he was making into the Bijlmer disaster.

“Bergman speaking.”

“Ariel, it’s me. Meir Katván.”

“How’s it going, Meir? What’s up at Ben Gurion?”

“I think I have some juicy information for you. Five days ago a private jet landed at Ben Gurion, a Learjet 45, owned by Mercure Inc., the business you mentioned the other day in relation to the Bijlmer disaster. The license plate on the plane is P2-MIG.”

“What country is the P2 code for?”

“Papua New Guinea.”

“That makes sense—Mercure is legally based in that country. Nonetheless, his headquarters are in Paris. Has the plane left Ben Gurion?”

“Yes, yesterday at dawn, heading to Le Bourget, in Paris.”

“Do you have a passenger manifest?”

“Just two people, apart from the crew, of course. Giovanni Albinoni and Mariyana Huseinovic.”

“I’ll send you a picture of Al-Saud and his partners. Can you review the security tapes from the airport and look for them among the passengers?”

“Consider it done.”

CHAPTER 8

“Hello?”

“Hi, Juana. It’s Eliah.”

“Stud! Are you back?”

“Yes, I’m in Paris.”

“Hooray! We missed you,” she confessed in a childish voice.

“Really?”

“Oof, you don’t know how much! Your friend has been unbearable since you left. I’m happy you’re back. Maybe now she’ll give me a bit of peace.”

Still smiling, Al-Saud asked, “Is she there?”

“No. She went to the Healing Hands headquarters, at number six Rue Breguet. She told me that she’d be there until one thirty.”

Eliah looked at the time and found that he was wearing his Breitling Emergency rather than the Rolex. He realized that in his hurry to see Matilde, he had forgotten to take it off; he only used it during military training and when he was flying planes. It was five past one. He had time.

“Thanks, Juana.”

“You’re welcome, stud! See you soon.”

He parked opposite the building’s entrance, which bore with a marble plaque with the inscription
Mains Qui Guérissent
(Healing Hands). Breguet was a quiet, narrow street. He settled down to wait.

Matilde smiled at Auguste Vanderhoeven reluctantly, trying to be nicer, because the Belgian doctor was being very friendly with her. Since the
preparation meeting for the first destination, when Auguste had introduced himself as the person in charge of the surgeons for the Kivu project, he had answered all her questions very kindly. They had just spent the morning in the organization’s library researching a subject that interested both of them: the vaginal fistula, a condition that devastated many African women but about which little was known.

Auguste opened the door and ushered her through. They went out, and as they were exchanging a few final words, Matilde spotted Eliah. The first thing she felt was her mouth and throat going dry, then a pain in her neck, where her pulse had gone strangely wild. He was resting his forearms on the roof of his sports car, on the street side, with the door open, watching them. She saw him take off his sunglasses, Ray-Ban Clippers, and waited breathlessly to meet his gaze. She smiled at him; timid at first, the smile grew as she gained in confidence, stretching widely, showing her teeth. Her happiness was uncontrollable after so many days without seeing him. She waved at him in greeting.

For Al-Saud, Matilde’s smile became the invitation he needed to move forward. He watched her say good-bye to the dimwit who had been mooning over her with an idiotic face, and was happy that Matilde pointed at him to justify her abrupt departure. The dimwit looked at him and nodded his head slightly by way of a greeting, which Eliah didn’t bother to return; he simply looked him in the eyes until the dimwit went away.

Matilde came over to him, unsure of herself. She ran her tongue over her teeth to lubricate her lips for speech, and cleared her throat to get rid of the lump. Now she couldn’t look at him, she feared him as much as she yearned for him. She had dreamed of this moment so many times in his absence.
Is this happiness? This crazy urge to live, to jump, to sing and dance right here, on the sidewalk, in front of the HH headquarters, as if I’d lost my mind, just because he’s standing here in front of me?
So much had changed in so little time!

“Hello.”

“Hello,” she answered, and she had to tilt her head back quite far to look him in the eyes. He was more beautiful and imposing than she remembered. His olive skin had darkened, as if he had been in the sun, and this accentuated his other colors: his dark eyelashes,
like brushes
,
Juana had said; the emerald green of his eyes; the white of his teeth, which she saw when he smiled. She thought he was laughing at her, at her clumsiness, her inexperience, her red cheeks and sparkling eyes. “Mat, you’re so transparent,” Ezequiel would always reproach her.

When she saw him lean toward her, Matilde closed her eyes because she had learned that if she took away her sense of sight, the other senses became much sharper, and she wanted to perceive the notes in his cologne and the feel of his lips. Eliah kissed her just as he had that morning on the plane, very close to the left corner of her mouth. She stayed there, trying to summon up the courage to turn her face and meet his lips, but in vain because, although she had changed during those days in Paris, her fears, tied to the demons from her past, remained.

“When did you get back?”

“This morning,” he answered, without removing his lips, which wandered around her cheek, cold on some parts, warm on others.