Obsession (Year of Fire) (41 page)

“Where did they commit her? I want to see her!”

“Impossible. Ezequiel said that she’ll be isolated for at least a month. She can’t have any visits from relatives or friends, or even speak to anyone on the phone. Clinic policy.”

“My God, Juani. It’s the curse of alcohol that torments my family.”

CHAPTER 12

“Getting another test?” Yasmín was surprised. “Has your sex life been so intense and careless over the last five months?”

“I’m not going to talk to my little sister about my sex life.”

“Why not? It’s almost the twenty-first century. We’re young and modern!”

“I’m not modern enough to talk to you about these things.”

“Who is she?” Yasmín strapped on a rubber band to make his veins stand out, which was actually unnecessary, she pondered, since on her brother Eliah’s well-trained body, they did so naturally. “You’re not going to tell me?”

“Yasmín, don’t bug me. Finish up, I have to take a trip in an hour.”

“Mmm…this test must be pretty important if you came here today with a trip coming up.”

“When will I have the results?”

“If you tell me her name, in a week. If not, fifteen days.”

“You little blackmailer!” Yasmín inserted the needle into Eliah’s vein, grinning cheekily. “Matilde. That’s her name.”

“Matilde? I like it. What’s she like? Pretty? Nice? How old?”

“The deal was for her name only. In a week I’ll be back for the results.”

“Before you go I want to ask you to call off the Bosnian brute who follows me from dawn to dusk.”

“His name is Sándor, and he’s not a Bosnian brute, but the man who keeps you safe.”

“It’s a nightmare, Eliah! I have him breathing down my neck every time it’s his turn to go on guard.”

“Just as it should be. Takumi sensei and I trained him, Yasmín. He’s one of my best men.”

“He’s so young! He’s not even twenty-five.”

“His spirit is much older and wiser than yours, I can assure you.” He was annoyed by Yasmín’s grimace. “Yasmín, don’t bug me about this. Sándor is going to continue as your bodyguard, end of discussion.”

In Amsterdam, in his suite in the Hotel de L’Europe, he received the president and financial director of the Metropolitan, one of the insurance companies that had hired him for the Bijlmer disaster, and presented them with his plan of action. The representatives seemed pleased. This meeting was followed by another of the same nature with the president and vice-president of the other company, World Assurance, who were worried about the scandal in the media. Al-Saud did his best to play down the importance.

“Our objective is for El Al to compensate you economically and we will achieve that. The reputation of World Assurance will remain intact.”

He said good-bye to his clients and, as soon as he closed the door, looked at the time. Six in the evening. Matilde would be at the institute. It would be useless to call Juana’s cell phone, because she’d have it turned off. He called Medes.

“Did you bring Matilde to the institute?”

“Yes.”

Al-Saud noticed that he sounded tense.

“What’s going on, Medes?”

“There was a small incident, sir.”

“Is Matilde okay?” His voice shook, and he cleared his throat.

“Yes, she’s fine.”

The relief made his legs wobble and he fell into a chair.

“Tell me what happened, Medes. Speak.”

The chauffeur told him that a man had been waiting at the door of the building on Rue Toullier. From the description, Al-Saud realized that it was Roy Blahetter. The bastard apparently didn’t listen to threats. When he heard that Blahetter had grabbed Matilde by the arm and shaken her, Al-Saud snapped a pen emblazoned with the hotel’s logo in half.

“Miss Juana hit him with her notebooks, but the man wasn’t deterred. I intervened, sir. I got out of the car and pulled him off her. The young ladies got in and we left quickly. That was it.”

What Medes didn’t tell him, because he didn’t know, was that someone was taking photographs of them from a van parked on Rue Soufflot.

Al-Saud hung up on Medes and called Zoya.

“Hello,
mon chéri.
How are you?”

“How did it go last night with Blahetter?”

“
Parfait
. I have what you need. You can come by and get it whenever you want. And thank you for sending such a fiery victim my way. It’s been a while since I had such a good time.” Zoya’s comments didn’t improve Al-Saud’s mood. “Oh, I forgot! Natasha got in touch. She called me this morning.” Al-Saud didn’t say anything. “She asked about you. A lot.”

“Did she tell you where she is?”

“No, she didn’t want to. She just said that she’s fine, although I found her a little depressed.”

“It’s a relief to know that she’s okay. If she calls again, tell her to get in touch with me, please.”

He didn’t have much time. In less than an hour, Lars Meijer, the Dutch journalist, would come for dinner at the hotel restaurant. He took a shower. He didn’t dress in a suit and tie but chose a more relaxed style, a blue blazer with gold buttons by Ralph Lauren, a pale-yellow Tommy Hilfiger shirt, jeans and brown boots.

Meijer was waiting for him at the bar. They shook hands and the Dutchman smiled uncomfortably. The maître d’ led them to a table and recited the specials for them. To avoid having to read the menu, both chose from the specials. Neither ordered wine.

“I think, Mr. Meijer, that you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

“It was my fault. I never should have approached you like I did that day outside the George V. It was pretty silly trying to take a black belt in karate by surprise—someone who could kill me with his bare hands,” he added in a joking manner. Eliah laughed at the joke to lighten the mood.

“Just like you, I was only doing my job: protecting Shiloah Moses.”

“Yes, I understand. And given what happened weeks later, I see that your precautions were very wise. That attack on the convention was such a terrible business!”

They spoke at length about the attack, which led them to the political situation in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank after the Oslo Accords. When dessert arrived, Al-Saud decided to start his negotiation.

“Mr. Meijer, just as you have been investigating me, I’ve been finding things out about you, and I have found some very interesting information. For example, I know that you were at the scene of the accident the day the El Al plane crashed into Bijlmer.”

“That’s right,” Meijer admitted. “I live there, and that day I was working from home. I witnessed everything.”

“I even found out that you saved many of your neighbors who were trapped in their apartments by flames. I congratulate you,” Al-Saud concluded, bowing his head. “And I know that you didn’t just witness the plane crashing, but that a few days later you and your neighbors started to suffer all kinds of health problems right? Skin diseases, respiratory disorders and other more serious problems.” At that point, Meijer sat up straight in his chair and stopped fidgeting with his fork. He nodded. “I also know that, even though you investigated and tried to uncover the truth, you weren’t able to. I read the two articles you published in the
NRC Handelsblad
and
Paris Match
. They were well written”—Al-Saud flattered him—“but, without proof, it remained mere speculation and the matter drifted out of the public’s consciousness.”

“There are still people suffering from serious health problems that I’m convinced started that day, when the El Al plane crashed into the building in Bijlmer. But, as you rightly say, without proof there’s nothing. Both El Al and the Dutch government closed ranks and I found it impossible to penetrate them.”

“I penetrated them,” Al-Saud replied, “and I have the proof that you need. What I need is someone in the press who can help me to expose them. I think you’re the right person.”

Meijer fell silent; his expression changed entirely. A few seconds later he regained some control and asked, “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only Dutch journalist who investigated the disaster professionally. You didn’t just limit yourself to questioning the causes, but also studied the consequences.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t want to be part of an intrigue that could get me fired.”

“Mr. Meijer, an investigative journalist like yourself can’t be frightened by the prospect of getting involved in an international intrigue. What would
have happened in the early seventies if Bernstein and Woodward,” Al-Saud said, referring to the journalists from the
Washington Post
who investigated the Watergate scandal, “had lost their nerve given the magnitude of what they were uncovering?”

“They had Deep Throat,” Meijer thought out loud, his eyes on the tablecloth, as he remembered the name of the North American journalists’ informant.

“And you’ll have me. I’ll be your source. I don’t imagine that Bernstein and Woodward were very interested in knowing why Deep Throat told them what he knew. They just wanted the information.”

“And the proof,” Meijer added, having regained his confidence.

“And the proof,” Al-Saud agreed. “Are you prepared to do it? Though it will, of course, have to be on my terms.”

“I’ll need to discuss it with my editor, but I don’t think there will be a problem.” Al-Saud nodded. “All the same, I have one condition.”

“I’m listening.”

“That you give me an interview to talk about so-called private military businesses.”

Al-Saud stared at him. Meijer, feeling uncomfortable, looked away.

“Fine,” he conceded.

Al-Saud was alone in the conference room. He had spread out a map of Africa and was concentrating on Ethiopia and Eritrea, whose relations were growing more and more tense with each passing day. Weeks before, Dingo and Axel had returned with information that helped them to sketch out a strategy. On Fergusson Island they were training a group of men who would travel to the region along with weapons, ammunition, water and provisions. It was a titanic endeavor.

Al-Saud watched the monitor that displayed the feed from reception. Victoire and Thérèse, each at their desks, were working in silence. Nobody was in the guest armchairs. An unusual silence and tranquility reigned over the offices at the George V. The loudspeaker system was quietly playing Mendelssohn’s “Symphony No. 3,” one of his favorites, enhancing the sense of peace. He looked at the time. Twenty-five past twelve. He fixed
his gaze on the main door, impatiently waiting for it to open. Matilde was twenty-five minutes late. Maybe she didn’t feel the same anxiousness to see him again that he did? He turned back to the map.

“
Bonjour
, Matilde!” Eliah’s head shot up toward the monitor. “Monsieur Al-Saud has been asking for you.”

“Yes, I’m late!” she exclaimed in English, her cheeks crimson out of nervousness and the cold. “I just discovered that my watch is almost half an hour late. It was a disaster. Poor Medes had been waiting for me outside for some time.”

Damn that watch!
Al-Saud cursed, watching her put down her rustic bag and coat. He immediately recognized the outfit as being the same one as she had worn that day at the Rue du Bac station: the skinny brown-and-pink tartan pants and the tight pink turtleneck. Just like that day, her hair was braided into pigtails. He waited, unmoving, for her to open the door to the conference room. Matilde did so cautiously, inching it open little by little, and peeked inside with her oval face. They looked at each other in silence until she uttered a little laugh, almost a shriek, and, after closing the door behind her, ran to him. Al-Saud took her in his arms and lifted her into the air, and Matilde wrapped her legs around his waist. As their mouths came together in a kiss, he leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, where they continued to kiss as though it had been a year instead of twenty-four hours.

“Matilde,” Al-Saud sighed, his mouth still on hers. “I couldn’t wait for you to get here. I was going crazy! You’re late!”

“Sorry, sorry! If you knew how anxious I felt all through yesterday and this morning, you wouldn’t be mad at me. You didn’t call me.”

The barely whispered reproach moved him. She had thought about him, missed him. He tightened the embrace and buried his nose behind her ear to breathe in her aroma.

“I wanted to smell you so badly. I love your perfume. What’s it called?”

“Upa la-lá.”

Matilde laughed when Al-Saud imitated her.

“Say it again. Upa la-lá. You’re funny.”

“Now I’m your clown. Upa la-lá,” he said, to please her. “What does it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s something people say when they pick up a baby. We say, ‘upa la lá!’ when we lift them up. I don’t know where it came from.” Matilde swept her nose along his neck. Her voice cracked as she said, “And I love your cologne, Eliah. I don’t know what happens to me when I smell it on your body and clothes. I went around all yesterday smelling your handkerchief so I could feel closer to you. I have to confess that on Sunday at your house I doused it with A*Men. Do you forgive me?”

Matilde arched her back when Al-Saud grabbed her breasts, and when he squeezed her nipples with his fingers she started to moan, forgetting entirely where they were. To silence her, Al-Saud covered her mouth and stood back up with Matilde still coiled around his torso. He cleared the table with one swipe—the map ended up on the back of a chair—and placed Matilde there instead.