Obsession (Year of Fire) (28 page)

“You don’t know how much you’re helping me just by holding me like this. You make me feel strong when you hold me. You make me feel as though I could take on the world.”

“My love, nobody has
ever
said anything so beautiful to me. If you need my strength, I’ll give you all that I have.”

Matilde’s laugh, a little strangled by emotion, remained in Al-Saud’s ears and bubbled back up throughout the afternoon. Every time the memory returned, his partners saw him stretch in his seat, put his hands behind his head and smile at thin air.

Before he went to pick up Matilde at the language institute, Al-Saud visited one of Mercure Inc.’s most valuable assets, the prostitute Zoya Pavlenko. He called her before arriving at her apartment at number 190 Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

“Are you with a client?”

“I’m alone,” the woman assured him. “Come over.”

They hugged in the vestibule of the luxurious apartment. Zoya stepped back and brushed away the hair to look into his eyes. She looked at him seriously.

“What’s up with you, Horse of Fire? You seem different. There’s a glimmer in your eye that I’ve never seen before. I sense an intense,
powerful energy. You’re content. I’d even go so far as to say that you’re happy. This is absolutely unprecedented. I’m astonished.”

Al-Saud nodded his head and smiled approvingly. Takumi sensei had told him that Zoya’s wisdom was part of her nature as a Serpent of Wood, which, in addition to her attractiveness and clairvoyant skills, she used to create an erotic allure that few men could resist.

It was ironic that it had been Samara who brought Zoya into his life. She had spotted her in an alley as they were coming out of a restaurant in Rouen. A man was beating her up, and she seemed to be happy to suffer in silence. “Help her, Eliah, please!” The man had ended up unconscious on a pile of trash. In fairly fluent but poorly pronounced French, Zoya begged them not to take her to a hospital because she would be deported to Ukraine; her visa had expired. They took her to the ranch, where Takumi tended to her wounds, binding her torso to help her broken ribs knit.

Using his position at L’Agence, Al-Saud made sure that Zoya’s attacker—her pimp—was deported and that the beautiful prostitute was recruited. She was given a new, refined image and lessons of every kind, from how to speak upper-class French to silver-service etiquette, to transform her into a twenty-five-thousand-franc-a-night escort. Plied with too many drinks and in the arms of a skilled woman, men could always be relied upon to give up their secrets. A little while later, Mercure Inc. was born, and Zoya joined Al-Saud’s team, although she continued to lend her services to L’Agence. Her first job for Mercure had consisted of approaching and seducing the hacker Claude Masséna, then wheedling out the information that Al-Saud and his partners used to extort him.

“So,” Zoya insisted, “aren’t you going to tell me the cause of this sparkle in your eyes?”

“What could it be?” He pretended to be surprised.

“I daren’t say it. It’s impossible.” Al-Saud lifted an eyebrow in mock confusion. “Can it be that my Horse of Fire is in love?” Al-Saud nodded again and smiled. “
Mon Dieu
, it’s true. So tell me about her.”

“Not yet.” He looked at his watch; he had to hurry, Matilde got out at six thirty.

“She must be very special.”

“She is,” he promised. “Zoya, tonight you’ll go to the George V. In room seven oh six, Mr. Shaul Zeevi will be waiting for you. He’s Israeli but his parents are Ukrainian. Speak to him in your language. He’ll like that.”

“Do you want me to get something specific out of him?”

“No. I just want a compromising video in case in the future our business doesn’t go as well as it is now.” Zoya agreed. “What news about Masséna?”

“A sweet little kitten. More in love than ever. Although over the last few days I’ve noticed something restless about him. He’s started to talk about leaving Mercure Inc., about getting rich so he can give me all the finer things in life. Be careful, Eliah.”

“I will. Have you heard anything from Natasha?”

Al-Saud and Natasha Azarov had had an affair the year before. Natasha, who was also Ukrainian and a childhood friend of Zoya’s, had gotten her start in the world of commercial modeling thanks to Zoya’s connections and her career had been growing increasingly successful. One night, in a tearful voice, she had called Zoya to tell her that she had to leave and disappeared. It had been four months since anyone had heard anything from her.

“I don’t understand it, Eliah,” Zoya said. “She was so in love with you. And things were starting to go well for her at work. I don’t understand it,” she insisted.

“Have you called her family in the Ukraine?”

“They haven’t heard anything from her. She hasn’t gone back to Yalta”—Zoya and Natasha’s hometown—“or Sebastopol, where she worked before she came to Paris. Do you think that little bitch Céline found out about your
affaire
and threatened her somehow?”

“I don’t think so. We were discreet, just as I was discreet with Céline.”

“Mmmm…you
were
discreet. I see that this mysterious lady has put an end to your obsession with that witch.”

“You’re excellent. Nothing escapes you.”

“That’s why you all love me at Mercure. And why you pay me so well.”

“On that subject, here’s your payment.” He took an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put it on the dresser. “
Au revoir
, Zoya.”

As he left the building on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Al-Saud didn’t notice Claude Masséna coming around the corner from Rue Monceau.

In the house his brother Ezequiel shared with his partner, Jean-Paul Trégart, Roy Blahetter was reminded of the good life he had enjoyed until he married Matilde, when his grandfather had cut him off financially and thrown him out of the metallurgical factory. In this sumptuous apartment on Avenue Charles Floquet in the Septième Arrondissement in Paris, they treated him like a king: brought him breakfast in bed, gave him a robe and slippers, drew him a bubble bath, heated up his towels, changed his sheets every other day, washed and ironed his clothes and made lunches and dinners worthy of a graduate from Le Cordon Bleu—in fact, Ezequiel had told him that the chef taught at the academy. The domestic staff was at his sole beck and call—Ezequiel and Jean-Paul were traveling and they were keen to impress and assist him.

Roy was convinced that he was best suited to the life of a wealthy man and never wanted to experience the cold grip of poverty again. He would become a rich and powerful scientist, fought over by the best universities, admired and garlanded across the world. And Matilde would be his queen, beaming next to him. He would build her a clinic so she could dedicate her life to the charitable works she dreamed of without needing to go to such inhospitable places as Africa.

He moved away from the window that looked out over Avenue Charles Floquet and returned to the drawing board that Ezequiel’s friend, a fashion designer, had lent him for his work. He worked in the old-fashioned manner, without resorting to computers or any other technological crutches other than his Hewlett-Packard HP 12c and his brain. He had used the money his father-in-law, Aldo Martínez, had lent him for his flight to Paris, but had also bought materials to draw up his plans and make the calculations—removable adhesive tape, film paper, a box of Rotring pens and markers, erasers, pencils, rulers, right angles, compasses and protractors—and anything else he needed to finalize his project. He urged himself to finish it. The man with whom he had been in contact a few weeks ago by e-mail and who was traveling to Paris to evaluate his work seemed very interested in financing the construction of the prototype.

He heard the ringing of the phone echoing throughout the empty apartment. A few seconds later, Suzanne, one of the housekeepers, knocked on the door and handed him the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Roy? It’s me, son. Aldo.”

“Aldo! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days. Where are you?”

“In Johannesburg, closing a deal. How are you?”

“Good, working. Mr. Jürkens wrote to me this morning. He’s planning to visit Paris in a few weeks and hopes to see a sketch of the centrifuge.”

“Be careful, Roy.”

“Don’t worry, Aldo. I was screwed once before. It won’t happen a second time.”

“Who is this Jürkens? Where did he come from?”

“He read one of my articles in the MIT journal and contacted me at the e-mail address next to my name. He’s a German nuclear physicist. He’s very knowledgeable. I can tell from the questions he asks me. We’ve even spoken over the phone.”

He didn’t mention the odd thing about Jürkens, the robotic sound of his voice, which had given him a start the first time they had spoken. The man had explained that he had had a cancer of the vocal cords that had left him mute. A new German invention installed in his throat had restored his speech, allowing him to communicate with his fellow man even if the sound was inhuman.

“I can’t get to Paris for a few weeks,” Aldo said. “I’d like you to wait for me before you meet this Jürkens. It would be better if I could discuss the terms of the contract with him.”

“I have no problem with you discussing the terms of the contract with him, but if Jürkens wants to meet to see some of my work, you don’t need to be there.”

“I urge you Roy: be careful. Do you know anything about this man?”

“It says on the Internet that he’s a scientist, a professor at the University of Hamburg. In this centrifuge business, Jürkens is acting on behalf of a German company that manufactures nuclear reactors. He’s their adviser.”

Aldo didn’t say anything. It was already clear to him that the story didn’t add up.

“Aldo, please.” Blahetter grew impatient. “I’ve already told you that I won’t get screwed over twice. I’ll take precautions. Do you think I’m going to show him all my work? Not a chance! If he wants to see it all, he’ll have to pay me first and sign a contract promising to finance the construction of the prototype.”

“Fine, I’ll trust your judgment. Changing the subject, have you seen my darling girl?”

“Not yet. I’m dying to see her, but now isn’t the time. I want to come back to her in triumph, not like this, poor and miserable. First I want to finish designing the centrifuge. Did you find out about that painting for me? Did you speak to Enriqueta?”

“My sister’s dealer was able to find it.”

“Great!”

“And here’s the good news: a gallery in Paris has it.”

“Perfect! My luck is starting to change.”

“Write this down. The gallery is called Chez Valentin and it’s on nine Rue Saint-Gilles. Enriqueta’s dealer has already put down a deposit to reserve it. The price of the painting is sixty thousand dollars.” Aldo heard Blahetter whistle. “And don’t be so shocked. According to Enriqueta’s dealer, they got it for an excellent price. I just sent the money to Ezequiel’s account. It should be available in two days.”

“Thank you, Aldo. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.” Blahetter’s voice sounded nasal. “Nobody has ever done so much for me. You paid for my flight to Paris to get Matilde back, you gave me the cash to finish my project and now you’re returning the painting she loves so much. Thank you. I have no words.”

“I just want you to make my daughter happy.”

“That’s all I want to do.”

CHAPTER 9

That week he settled naturally, quietly and smoothly into a routine, just as Matilde had naturally, quietly and smoothly taken him over. Although by nature he disliked repetition, habits and rules, and although in his profession no one day was ever the same as the next, Al-Saud had never been so happy. He woke up in the morning thinking of her. He knew that Matilde liked to get up early, around seven, and he imagined her in a robe, making breakfast, gazing out at the people strolling along Rue Toullier, thinking about how she could make the world a better place.
Matilde, just by being in the world you make it a better place.

He would have breakfast with Leila—sometimes accompanied by her siblings, Diana and Sándor—and leaf through the newspapers, but eventually, halfway through an article, he would realize that he hadn’t absorbed a word.
Matilde. Matilde.
Around eight o’ clock, as he did his exercises in the gym or laps in the pool, he planned his dates with her. The only moment when he was able to forget her was when he was practicing hand-to-hand combat with Diana or Sándor and had no choice but to concentrate to avoid ending up humiliated on the tatami with a knee in the chest or whacked in the ribs by the
tonfa
.

As it started to approach midday, he started to check the time every five minutes. This restlessness, just as infrequent as his appreciation for routine, put him in a bad mood, because the cold, calculating part of him was rebelling against the fire for Matilde that consumed him. His spirit was infuriated by the web she was weaving around him. He felt trapped inside a paradox, because although his possessive impulse drove him to appropriate her, Matilde sometimes seemed unattainable, indifferent,
distant, ethereal, while he twisted himself up into a tangle of feelings and frustrations. Sometimes he worried that he would break her with his violent energy. Hadn’t Juana warned him that Matilde was made of glass? And his Matilde, that fragile, thin, slight and soft creature, was planning to venture into a Congolese hellhole. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from shouting, “You’re not going, Matilde! I won’t allow you to put yourself at that kind of risk!” He didn’t say anything, because he detected an iron streak beneath her angelic appearance.