Obsession (Year of Fire) (32 page)

“You were crying,” he said, and traced the path of the tear down Matilde’s cheek with his index finger.

“Out of sadness. I can’t conceive of such hatred, Eliah. It breaks my heart. Don’t think that I don’t understand the fury, the struggle, the impotence that injustice provokes. I know it, I’ve felt it. But to kill someone…I’m overwhelmed by so much hatred.”

“You were crying and I wasn’t here to console you.”

“You are now,” she said, stroking his hirsute cheek, and brushing a tuft of hair away from his forehead. “When I look at you and see your nobility, I feel better.”

I’m capable of killing, Matilde. These hands that touch and lust after you have killed many people, not only in the heat of combat, without seeing the faces of my adversaries. I have killed in silence, looking my victim in the eyes.

Not even during his training with L’Agence, when they drove them into the Brecon Mountains in the middle of the Welsh winter, and made them fill their backpacks with stones and climb for days in the freezing wind, had Al-Saud felt the exhaustion he felt after that first day of the convention. At the time, in the Brecon Beacons, he had certainly been exhausted, his body stiff, hungry and thirsty, but Monday the twenty-sixth of January, 1998, was different, because the tiredness was mixed with disappointment. Neither he nor his partners could forgive having allowed a new employee to join the George V’s payroll days before the meeting on the two-nation state. The human resources department were
all blaming each other and nobody would admit to having approved the references of Rani Dar Salem, the supposed name of the bellboy, an Egyptian with a French work permit. The argument with Shariar started to turn ugly and Tony and Michael had to intervene to prevent the Al-Saud brothers from losing control. The press conference had ended up being prickly, long and exhausting. Eliah had to admit that Shiloah had demonstrated amazing composure in the face of the flood of questions from the journalists, and, when they asked whether it was wise for the convention to continue, he had declared, “The convention will reconvene this Wednesday. We haven’t organized an event in support of peace in the Middle East only to give up at the first obstacle. We’re not afraid. And we’ll keep moving forward.”

Sabir Al-Muzara and Shiloah Moses had convinced the participants to stay in Paris and continue the discussions on the creation of a two-nation state in what was formerly known as the British Mandate for Palestine. Before the journalists dispersed, Peter Ramsay took to the microphone and set out the requirements that needed to be met to participate in the convention. The only positive outcome of the attack was the interest from the press; press numbers were expected to triple on Wednesday, as would Mercure’s workload, because accrediting so many people in such a short space of time would mean administrative chaos.

Having finished press rounds in one of the hotel rooms, Al-Saud and his partners shut themselves in the offices on the eighth floor to organize and reinforce the security measures. His trusted staff, including Dingo, Diana, Sándor and Axel Bermher, had gathered to contribute to the design of the new plans. At nine p.m. they decided to stop and continue in the morning.

He liked to remain in the suite at the George V when everyone else had left. He would turn out the lights, open the curtains and admire the illuminated fountain in the internal garden. During that first moment of peace and quiet, his mind went over the events of the morning, from Matilde’s expression when she saw Sabir Al-Muzara to the discovery of the bellboy’s cadaver. He focused on his own memories, trying to grasp an image that had slipped away from him in the swarm of faces, shouting and vivid confusion during the attack in the convention room. In the middle of the tumult, he had had the impression that he had seen a face
from the past, one he would never forget; it was just for an instant, then the face had disappeared in the blink of an eye. Perhaps he had imagined it, but the attack had revived memories of the one in ’81, when a group of four terrorists from the German Baader-Meinhof Group attempted to kidnap him along with his mother and his sister, Yasmín. He leaned on the window frame with his arms stretched out, let his head hang loose and squeezed his eyes shut to put the experience out of his mind. He breathed deeply and pictured Matilde’s smile in his mind. Then he called her. Juana answered and spoke to him in a whisper.

“Mat’s sleeping, stud. She was exhausted when she got home from the institute. She took a bath and went straight to bed.”

“She didn’t eat dinner?”

“No dinner. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she eats a huge breakfast tomorrow.”

The frustrated phone call worsened his already filthy mood. He wanted to hear her voice. Matilde possessed an intangible quality that, like music, soothed the burning stallion inside him.

He telephoned the base and asked to speak to Claude Masséna.

“Hello, Masséna. Has the list of guests from the George V arrived?”

“Yes, sir. Two hours ago. Dingo brought it.”

“I want you to scrutinize the identity of each guest. I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to go home tonight.”

“We already anticipated that, sir. The girls and I will stay. We’ll have the report tomorrow morning.”

“What’s happening on the news? What more have they said about the attack?”

“Nothing new, sir. The truth is there is a lot of confusion, because, unlike other attacks, they don’t know who the target was, if it was Mr. Moses or the writer. Hamas and Hezbollah have been mentioned a lot. They’re also suggesting that it could have been an attack by extreme-right Zionists. They’re mentioning names like the rabbi Moshé Levinger and the ultra-right parties Kach and Kahane Chai. Do you know what’s happening, sir? They still have the killing by Baruch Goldstein in Hebron and the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin in their minds.”

“Thank you, Masséna. Call me on a secure line if you come across anything important. Whatever the time. Good night.”

He threw on his jacket, set the alarm and walked toward the exit. He opened the door and stopped suddenly. Gérard Moses was standing in front of him. They looked at each other in open confusion. They hadn’t spoken in months.

“Brother!” Eliah exclaimed.

“Shariar found me at the door of the George V and let me in,” Moses explained, needlessly. “How are you, my friend?”

They hugged each other, slapping each other’s backs heartily.

“Come in, come in. It’s so good to see you!”

Al-Saud unlocked the door and disconnected the alarm. When he turned around, he discovered Gérard staring at him.

“Today had to end like this,” Al-Saud ventured, “with one more surprise. Though this is the first good one I’ve had today. Come in, sit down.”

“Shariar was telling me about what happened this morning. I’m sorry. I know your business was in charge of the security.”

Al-Saud gave him the facts, and Gérard, who was well versed in the political situation due to his relationships with so many governments and businesses, offered his hypothesis. As always, the conversation with his childhood friend flowed naturally and easily, and it didn’t matter how much time had passed or that they had fallen out of touch. When they saw each other again, everything was just as it had always been.

“You’re still the most brilliant man I’ve ever met,” Al-Saud confessed and Gérard hid his jubilation at hearing these words under a brief smile. He lived to obtain Eliah Al-Saud’s approval, to receive his hugs, his smiles and confessions.

They ate dinner in the Mercure meeting room, and Gérard was pleased when Eliah suggested they eat oysters, his favorite dish.
You haven’t forgotten me, Horse of Fire, or my tastes.
To celebrate the reunion, Al-Saud ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon, which he took a sip of after toasting his best friend’s health. Gérard drank the rest, and Al-Saud wondered if the porphyria and medication would allow him to get away with the excess. He found him elated, cheerful and relaxed. He observed Gérard as he gave him an account of his recent comings and goings. Even without knowing him, it wasn’t hard to see that he was a peculiar person. The porphyria had left its mark, in spite of Berta’s loving care. The scars on his cheek, nose and fingers were evidence of excessive exposure to
the sun. The overly bushy eyebrows, thick eyelashes and hairy hands and forearms—he had rolled up his sleeves to eat the oysters—were symptoms of a body trying to protect itself from photophobia; he even had fuzz growing on the bridge of his nose and sprouting from his ears, which Gérard got rid of himself using hot wax. He also had other signs, such as the brownish tint of his teeth and the strange pigmentation of his skin; his urine was probably very dark. Al-Saud had researched Gérard’s type of porphyria and it tortured him to know that the irreversible progress of the illness would eventually lead to the deterioration of his autonomous nervous system. His friend was condemned to insanity. The thought caused him a profound sadness and made his eyes sting. He cleared his throat and brought up one of their favorite subjects: planes.

Gérard listened and admired him in silence. The mixture of blood that ran in Eliah Al-Saud’s veins—Italian from his mother’s family and Arabic from his father’s—had created this superb creature, not just in terms of physical beauty but the quality of his indomitable, noble and brave spirit. And this extraordinary man considered him his best friend.

The conversation ranged widely and then took an unexpected turn: Gérard showed an interest in Eliah’s love life.

“Are you seeing someone?” The private investigator had assured him that he was having a secret affair with the famous model Céline.

Al-Saud lifted his head and looked his friend in the eyes. He wasn’t going to talk to him about Matilde or the happiness they shared. He loved Gérard like a brother and there were few he felt so at ease with, but he had always felt guilty for being healthy and strong and free while his friend was imprisoned in the darkness and condemned in a few years to insanity. He realized that he didn’t want to admit to him that he had never been happy until he met Matilde.
Like counting your money in front of the poor
, his grandmother would have said.

“Nobody special,” was his answer. “You know, here and there. Since Samara died I haven’t had any serious relationships.”

“Did the police find out anything more about Samara’s accident?” Al-Saud shook his head and looked down. “And that girl Natasha? You didn’t hear anything more from her?”

“She vanished into thin air. I never saw her again. Like you do sometimes,” he said, reproaching him with a smile that quickly vanished. “Why
do you do that, Gérard? Why do you disappear for months at a time? We don’t hear anything from you. I’ve been calling you on the number you gave me in Belgium, but I always get the answering machine.”

Gérard was preparing to answer him when a knock at the door interrupted them.

“It must be the waiter, coming to collect the dishes,” Al-Saud conjectured, standing up. Gérard followed him.

It was Shiloah Moses and Sabir Al-Muzara, flanked by Dingo and Axel.

“Didn’t you go to my house?” Al-Saud asked Sabir.

“We were planning Wednesday’s meeting,” Shiloah answered for his companion.

“Come in.”

Shiloah stopped dead in the doorway when he saw his older brother, who was equally affected by the coincidence, to judge by the way his eyes were widening.

“Gérard!” Shiloah moved toward him to hug him. The other withdrew.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please, Gérard,” Al-Saud mediated, and gestured for his men to stand guard outside.

“Please, Gérard? Please, what? I have to put up with this guy just because he’s my brother by blood? Of course,
his
blood didn’t inherit the disease passed on to me by the son of a bitch of a father we share. That bastard and
my brother
have always looked down on me and humiliated me. I don’t have to put up with it now.”

“What are you talking about?” Shiloah asked, hurt.

“Please,” Sabir intervened, raising his arms to shoulder height as though he were trying to stop two boxers fighting in a ring. “Let’s talk like civilized people. If not, Shiloah and I will leave.”

Al-Saud collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh of disgust, stretched his arms across the back and threw his head back.
The icing on the cake
, he thought. The perfect close to a horrific day: a fight. He stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t pay any attention to the accusations the Moses brothers lobbed back and forth at each other or Al-Muzara’s attempts to intervene. “Our father only loved you and you took advantage of that!” “Berta loved only you but I was her son too! She was yours and
yours alone. And I never complained or tried to intervene because I knew you needed her more than me.” “Because I’m an invalid, a repugnant freak of nature. Aren’t I?” “I’m tired of you hiding behind your illness!” “I wish you knew what it was like to have this porphyria!”

“Enough!” Al-Saud jumped to his feet. “Enough!” The warning in his voice and the frown that hardened his features revealed his frustration and exhaustion. The other three looked at him in shock. He never raised his voice and did not anger easily. “This argument has to end! I’ve had my worst day in years and I don’t have the patience to deal with this pathetic display.”

“Tell this individual to leave so we can continue our conversation.”

“Gérard, I’m not going to tell one of my best friends to leave my office. He’s your brother, for the love of God!”

“My brother,” he repeated with a sardonic smile.

“Yes, I’m your younger brother. I have always loved and admired you. I admire your intelligence, your brilliant brain…”

“You just want to impress Eliah and Sabir! You want to make them think that you love me when I have always been the butt of your jokes and snubs.”

“You’re lying! Why are you lying?”

“Enough!” Al-Saud grabbed his hair in his hands. “Gérard, please, how can you say that your brother treats you badly? In twenty-five years, I’ve never seen him insult you or make fun of you.”

“You believe him,” Gérard declared.