Obsession (Year of Fire) (34 page)

He wouldn’t tell her that Edmé de Florian had called him that morning to confirm his suspicion: the murder of Rani Dar Salem had been carried out with a Beretta 92 loaded with hollow-pointed dumdum bullets that caused an enormous wound in the victim’s head, like an explosion. Little was known about Dar Salem: he was Egyptian, had a French
work visa and lived in a dark little room in a
pension
in the Dix-Neuvième Arrondissement. The neighbors described him as a quiet, timid and very religious young man; they often saw him following the
Azala
, the five daily prayers. Going through his belongings didn’t offer any clues, nor did studying the list of guests at the George V.

“The police haven’t found anything relevant. The bellboy’s murder is the work of a professional—no prints or clues were left.”

Al-Saud also wouldn’t mention that he had spent a fruitless, sleepless night at the base on Avenue Elisée Reclus studying the security-camera videos of the attack. Above all, he was looking for a face, one from his past that remained burned on his retina.

“Right now I want to forget about the attack and everything else,” he said, and lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the living room. He sat her on the edge of the armchair.

“Lie down there”—she pointed—“and put your head on my legs.”

He really did seem tired. The natural shadows around his eyes had become intense, almost the color of red wine. He was too tall for the sofa, so he hung his feet over the armrest. Al-Saud let out a little moan as Matilde massaged his hairy skin. Her voice soothed him as she told him anecdotes about her week. She told him that she had gone back to the Healing Hands headquarters to pick up the Expatriates Guide, a key document that they needed to study before leaving for the Congo.

The word made Al-Saud uneasy, and brought to mind the telephone conversation he had had that afternoon with his friend General Joseph Kabila, head of the military staff of the Democratic Republic of the Congo’s army and eldest son of the president, Laurent-Désiré Kabila. The friendship between Al-Saud and Kabila had started two years before, when Joseph had spent six months at the barracks on Fergusson Island while Mercure turned him into a model soldier. It didn’t take long for Eliah to realize that Joseph was a born leader, not the kind that was prevalent in Africa—egocentric lovers of luxury and corruption—but rather thoughtful, circumspect and sensitive. “The history of Congo would be very different,” Tony Hill had opined, “if Joseph was in his father’s place.” That was why, when Joseph predicted that the Congo would be at war within a few months, Al-Saud didn’t take it lightly. His first thought was for Matilde.

He sat up, moved to her side and drew her in to kiss her. Eliah liked to pull away quickly, while she was still in a trance, her lips slightly parted, shining with his saliva, and her eyes closed, so he could make out the web of veins under her transparent skin. Matilde opened her eyes slowly, smiled at him, ran her fingers along his mouth and nestled her index finger in the dimple in his chin.

“Eliah, when we met on the plane, why didn’t you tell me that you were friends with Sabir Al-Muzara?”

“And use my friend’s talents and fame to seduce a woman I was interested in? I don’t think so. I’m proud, Matilde. If I’m going to win a woman, I’ll do it on my own merits, not someone else’s. However, now I would like to tell you about a friend.” He paused, settled on the armchair. “Matilde, do you know who Joseph Kabila is?” She shook her head. “He’s the son of the president of the Congo, and a friend of mine.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And what’s more, he’s the head of the military staff of his country. He knows the political situation in the Congo better than anyone. This afternoon he called me and told me that the situation with their neighbors, Rwanda and Uganda, is getting more tense every minute and that war is imminent.” Matilde opened her eyes wide and her mouth fell open. “The critical area is in the provinces of North and South Kivu, where you told me you were going with Healing Hands.” Matilde nodded, still disoriented. “Matilde, my love, you can’t go to the Congo. You understand that, don’t you?”

Matilde untangled herself from his embrace and stood up.

“Of course I’m going.”

After looking at her in astonishment, Al-Saud jumped up from the armchair.

“I’m telling you that there will be a war, a big war in the Congo. Do you have any concept of what that means?”

“If my cousin Amélie is there, why not me?”

“Amélie is a missionary who dedicates her life to the poor and needy.”

“Who do you think I want to dedicate it to?”

To me?
Al-Saud didn’t dare to utter the question; it had taken him by surprise. He grabbed his head and breathed deeply. He felt the turbulence starting to rumble inside him. He knew and Takumi sensei had
always pointed out that patience wasn’t one of his virtues, regardless of how Shorinji Kempo philosophy had taught him how to sharply rein in his impulses.

“You can treat children in any other part of the world where there isn’t a war going on. I must ask: Do you have any idea what a war is?”

“Only what I can see on television,” Matilde admitted.

“Well, that’s nothing,
nothing
compared to the reality.”

“And how do you know what war is like?”

He wouldn’t answer that question. Not yet.

“Matilde,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, “I don’t want you to go to the Congo.”

“I’m sorry, Eliah.” Matilde shook off the weight of his hands. “I’m going to the Congo. I once told you that this is the reason I studied medicine, and I’ve got to complete my mission.”

“You’re so stubborn! Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? The word
war
doesn’t frighten you?”

“Yes, it frightens me, but those people need me even more if there’s a war.”

Don’t you think that I need you?

“I can’t let you send yourself into that hell! You won’t go to the Congo!”

“What right do you have to tell me what I can or can’t do?” It was the first time she had raised her voice to him. “My whole life I’ve done whatever other people thought or wanted, and I was never happy. Not anymore! I’m going to live my life in whatever way I want and I’m not going to answer to anyone. If I want to go to the Congo, I’ll go. And another thing, Healing Hands takes care of their people. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.”

“Healing Hands takes care of their people!” He forced a laugh. “But in a war like the one that’s about to happen in the Congo, they’ll be just as vulnerable as the Congolese themselves. As for the people who want to control your life, don’t compare me to them. I just want you to live freely and happily, but I want you to live, not to die in the attempt. If you go to the Congo the way things are at the moment, the chances are that you’ll be staring death in the face. Aren’t you afraid of dying?”

“Of course! I fear it like nothing else in the world! It’s my worst enemy!”

Al-Saud took a step back, astonished by Matilde’s reaction. She had transformed from a sweet, soft teenager into an aggressive woman; still, he sensed the panic that was beginning to take hold of her. Matilde sat on the sofa and rested her forehead on the armrest. Her little back rose and fell as the air flooded into her lungs. Still crumpled there, she stated, “I didn’t come to Paris to get involved with a man who wants to control my life. I want you to leave and to let me do what I came here to do. Please,” she added in a strangled voice.

She couldn’t work up the bravery to lift her head and watch him go. She stayed in that position until the click of the door closing let her know that she was alone.

Eliah Al-Saud stormed down the stairs, driven by rage, impotence and his shattered pride. The frozen air hit him like a punch to the chest, and the cyclone raging in his head faded away. It was replaced by anxiety and a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He was surprised by the ringing of his cell phone. He looked at the screen. Céline, of course. He decided to answer.

“
Allô?
”

“
C’est moi, mon amour. Céline.
” She didn’t speak in Spanish if she could possibly help it.

“Are you in Paris?”

“I arrived this morning and on Monday I’m traveling to Abu Dhabi. But first I want to see you, Eliah. It’s been so long since we were together.”

“I want to see you too. We need to talk.”

“Tomorrow I have a party. Would you like to take me?”

“Just for a moment. Then we’ll go to a quiet place. I need to talk to you.”

“
D’accord
,” she said, elated. “Come and get me at eight.”

Before he opened his eyes, Claude Masséna tasted the metallic tang of blood. He explored his mouth with his tongue and the aftertaste intensified, along with a pain in the back of his neck. He realized he was sitting and that his head was hanging backward. As he straightened his neck,
slowly so as to avoid making himself any more queasy, images danced in his head. He tried to reconstruct the last few hours.

That Friday, at around seven in the evening, the system alerted him that Udo Jürkens was returning the car to Rent-a-Car. He typed frantically to find out the address of the agency.

“Bravo!” he exclaimed, startling his assistants. Jürkens wasn’t just returning it in Paris, but to the agency on Rue des Pyramides, a few minutes from Avenue Elisée Reclus, if the traffic wasn’t too bad.

“I’ll be back soon,” he announced to his employees, and ran to the elevator that would take him to the surface.

At number fifteen Rue des Pyramides, there was a sign with the Rent-a-Car logo pointing to an underground parking lot. He parked his car in the street and went down the ramp on foot. In the dim light, at the far end of the cavernous space, the small Rent-a-Car office stood out, occupied by an employee who was talking on the phone. Probably, he thought, Jürkens and the other employee were checking the mileage and state of the car. He used a small halogen flashlight on his keychain to look at the license plates. When he heard footsteps, he looked up. A figure was coming toward him.

“Monsieur Jürkens?” he was able to say before a noise echoed in his head and everything went black.

Waking up, after a moment of pain and confusion, he studied his surroundings. They reminded him of the base, because there were no windows. He was inside a cube, with walls covered with aluminum sheets that refracted the light shining right into his face. He tried to shield himself with his hands and realized that they were shackled to the back of his chair. It was then that he realized he was naked.

“Good evening, Mr. Masséna.”

“What am I doing here? Who are you? Where are my clothes?”

“Settle down, Masséna,” said another voice. “We’ll ask the questions.”

An arm entered the illuminated area and brought a glass to his lips. Masséna hesitated.

“Drink it. It’s just water.”

“What were you doing in the Rent-a-Car parking lot this afternoon?”

“Why should I answer your questions? This is completely wrong! I demand that you let me out of here!”

“We’ll let you go if you cooperate.”

“What were you doing?” his interrogator insisted, impatiently. “Don’t make us use other methods to make you talk. I promise you that you won’t enjoy it, Masséna.”

Nothing scared Claude as much as the prospect of physical suffering. After witnessing his mother’s death at a very early age, sickness terrified him. He was a hypochondriac and lived surrounded by medicines. He wilted at the idea that these characters could inflict pain on him at will.

“What do you want from me?”

“Why were you looking for Mr. Jürkens?”

“I wanted to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“A personal matter.”

The same hand that had given him the water sent his head rocking backward with a slap. Through a one-way mirror, Diuna Kimcha and Mila Cabin flinched slightly as they watched the blood spurt from Masséna’s lip. The
kidon
agent had started to do the work that he had been trained for, although he didn’t need to use force again; the man talked without any further encouragement. When Masséna had finished explaining his relationship with this Jürkens, he was left panting, trying to make out the figures through the blinding light. A few long minutes passed before they said anything else to him.

“Why are you circumcised, Masséna?”

“
Quoi?
”

“Why don’t you have foreskin on your penis? How could I be any clearer?”

“Because I’m Jewish.”

Before they covered his head in a black bag to smuggle him out of the Israeli embassy, he had agreed to become a sayan.

Neither of them was in any condition to get up at eight thirty in the morning. Matilde had cried until she fell asleep at around four a.m., and Juana, after drinking a few daiquiris and dancing until she dropped, had
ended up in Shiloah Moses’s bed at the George V. The hotel limousine had brought her to Rue Toullier at six thirty in the morning.

“Don’t bust my balls, Ezequiel! It’s Saturday and I just went to bed.”

“Let’s go, baby doll.” He urged her, tickling her neck. “I came to take you shopping.”

“Shopping?” She pulled the sheet off her face. “Really?”

“Tonight is the party Jean-Paul organized for you. The continually postponed party. And I want to show off my best friends. I’m planning on buying you dresses, shoes and
bijouterie
. And Jean-Paul has given you a day at the Christian Dior spa so that you’ll look like goddesses tonight.” Ezequiel looked at Matilde, who was drinking coffee in the living room. “What’s up, Mat? What’s that face about?”

“Sleepy face,” she lied.

He invited them to breakfast in the famous Café Les Deux Magots, at Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés and, within an hour, they were in the Porsche 911 Turbo. Ezequiel had decided, since they were already short on time—they had an appointment at the spa at twelve thirty—to go to the House of Chanel on Rue Cambon, where he would buy each of them a dress, shoes, a purse and
bijouterie
, everything except for lingerie, for which they walked a few blocks down Rue Saint-Honoré to the designer Chantal Thomass’s store, where Matilde refused to continue spending money.