Obsession (Year of Fire) (50 page)

“One day,” Moses complained in French, “I won’t be able to decode your message and I’ll stand you up.”

“You know you’ll always be able to decode them. Of all of us, you’ve always been the most intelligent and by far the best educated.”

And the sickest
, Gérard added to himself.

“Give me the key to your room in the British Hotel,” Al-Muzara demanded.

Gérard smiled approvingly. His friend already knew where he was staying.

“Why do you want it?”

“So that Barak”—he signaled one of his bodyguards—“can get my pigeons and bring back yours. I’ll need them to keep sending you messages. You brought them, didn’t you?”

“Of course. It was about time that we exchanged them. They’re in a cage, in the bathtub.”

Al-Muzara handed the key to Barak and spoke to him in Arabic.

“Did you have trouble getting the pigeons into Malta?” the terrorist wanted to know.

“No. I said that I was here for a competition and presented my papers. The health authorities aren’t too strict. I slipped a few bills into the boss’s hand to speed me through the process.”

“Good,” he said, then asked sharply, “What happened at the George V?”

“What happened is that you sent an incompetent man to do the job.”

“Your man, Jürkens, didn’t he tell you what happened?”

“He doesn’t know. He didn’t have access to the convention room. He snuck in afterward, when everything was in chaos, but he couldn’t see how the attack had gone wrong. He had to take care of the boy, as you well know.” Al-Muzara muttered his consent. “We missed a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. I don’t know if we’ll ever get another chance like that.”

“We’ll get rid of those traitors, don’t you worry.”

“Why are we meeting here today, Anuar? We could have exchanged messages by pigeon in the normal way.”

“I brought you here to ask you to design a missile with a longer range than the Qassams that we’re using to attack the Israeli settlements. One my men can make in their workshops, like they do now with the Qassam. And I don’t just need the range to be longer, but also more precise.”

“You’re asking for the perfect weapon, Anuar! Do you think that I can spend so much time designing a missile of that nature and neglecting my other clients and orders?”

“I’m planning on paying you.”

“You don’t have a cent. You used everything Qaddafi gave you to buy weapons and explosives from the Prince of Marbella.” Moses used the nickname of Rauf Al-Abiyia, Aldo Martínez Olazábal’s partner. “Where do you expect to get the money?”

“I
expect
you to help me get it. I’m planning an old-fashioned strike, like the ones Carlos the Jackal would pull to make money.”

Gérard stared at him, astonished.

“Why would you need me to do it? Get Carlos the Jackal,” he said sarcastically and smiling in a way that Al-Muzara thought accentuated the sordidness of his features.

“Carlos is old and finished. He can’t move around as easily as he could before; hardly any countries are willing to harbor him anymore. I need you to lend me Udo Jürkens.” They looked at each other in silence. “I know who he is, Gérard. He’s the famous Ulrich Wendorff, from the Baader-Meinhof gang. He hasn’t changed that much, even after all these years and a few photos of him still exist. You should send him to have some plastic surgery. If I recognized him, an old agent from one of the many intelligence services that are looking for him will too.”

“Udo has changed greatly since Abu Nidal ordered him killed. I don’t think he’s the man you need.”

“Jürkens is the right man. A part of what’s obtained will be for you.”

“What kind of strike are you planning?”

“OPEC,” he said, meaning the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries. “There, I’ll have all the viperous Arabs kidnapped and demand ransom. I’m especially interested in Kamal Al-Saud. In a few months there will be a commemorative ceremony in memory of his brother, King Faisal, at the headquarters in Vienna, and he’s expected to give a speech. I’m thinking of attacking that day.”

“Kamal Al-Saud took you into his home and treated you like a son when your parents died.”

“Don’t start giving me lectures on morality. Not you, Gérard. I need Jürkens. My men are good with weapons, but they don’t know how to plan the strategy for an attack of this kind. I need Jürkens to lead them into the heart of the OPEC headquarters and get hold of the viperous Arabs to squeeze them for money. Ten percent will be for you.”

“Fifty.”

“You’re dreaming, Gérard. Fifteen. Plus, I’ll pay you to design the missile, and you’re not likely to do a deal with me out of friendship, are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Eighteen.”

“Fine,” said Gérard, after a moment’s reflection.

“I need you to start working on the missile design.”

“You ask too much, Anuar. You’re building castles in the air. You haven’t even gotten the cash yet and you’re already spending your tab.”

“With Jürkens at the head of the group, the attack on OPEC will be a success.”

They discussed the details of the German’s participation in the strike. The most important obstacle was obtaining the blueprints of the OPEC headquarters. Getting the weapons and the men wouldn’t be a problem, although the latter would require training and discipline to turn them into a well-oiled commando group.

It seemed as though the conversation had to come to an end when Al-Muzara’s expression changed and he asked, “What have you heard from my brother-in-law?”

“I was with Eliah on the day of the attack. He seemed well. And I just called him for his birthday. I think he’s living with a woman.”

“One of his whores,” Al-Muzara spat. “He never got tired of being unfaithful to Samara.”

“I think this is something else. I think this time he’s in love.”

“My sister’s body isn’t cold in the ground and he’s in love with someone else.”

“Anuar, your sister died almost three years ago.”

“My sister was murdered! She and the child she was carrying in her womb. And it was definitely Eliah’s fault. Some murky vengeance related to his underhanded dealings.”

“Or someone wanting to avenge you—you hardly live a model life yourself.” The comment disturbed the Palestinian terrorist. “Plus, it was never proven that it was murder.”

“Please, Gérard! The accident was caused deliberately, in the same place and in the same way as the crash that killed the Princess of Wales.
The expert said that the seat belts had been intentionally worn down and that the brake lines had been punctured.”

On Sunday morning, Al-Saud was awakened by the phone ringing. He fumbled for his cell phone on the bedside table. He sat up violently when he heard a man’s voice asking for Matilde. He got out of bed and left the room.

“Who is this?”

“Al-Saud, it’s Ezequiel Blahetter.”

“Who gave you this phone number?”

“Juana. It’s an emergency. I have to talk to Matilde.”

“She’s sleeping. What happened?”

“My brother Roy, Matilde’s husband, is in the hospital. They found him unconscious on the street. Some gang beat him to a pulp. He has a broken leg and hundreds of other wounds and bruises. He’s asking for Matilde.”

“What hospital is he in?”

“He’s at the Hospital Européen Georges Pompidou, number twenty Rue Leblanc.”

“How is he?”

“He’s not dead, unfortunately for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Blahetter.”

“You threatened to kill him if he bothered Matilde again. And now a gang has attacked him. Interesting timing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t send other people to do my dirty work. I do it myself. And if your shit of a brother hurts my woman again, don’t doubt for a second that I would kill him with my bare hands.”

Matilde stirred in bed and half opened her eyes. She was alone. She heard short, sharp barks, as though someone was exercising and exhaling noisily. She went to the bathroom and, after peeing, washing her face, brushing
her teeth and combing her hair, wrapped herself in Al-Saud’s silk robe, put on his leather slippers and walked toward the gym.

It had been a while since Eliah and Takumi had faced each other in the dojo. They had chosen ninjutsu, the martial art of ninjas, with katanas, or samurai swords, as weapons. Eliah was momentarily distracted when he saw Matilde appear, and Takumi seized the moment to gain an advantage. He struck his side with the blade of the katana. Matilde stifled a scream.

“You would be dead if this were a real fight,” Kaito reproached him in Japanese. “A pretty face is all it takes to make you lose your concentration?”

“It’s not just a pretty face, sensei,” Al-Saud answered in the same language. “You’re not going to let me win to impress my woman?”

“You want to impress her?”

Eliah nodded with a half smile.

“How much do you want to impress her?”

“A lot.”

Matilde sat down, a little ways off, on some of the gym equipment. She was fascinated by the way these very different men were fighting in black suits that looked like pajamas. Though Al-Saud was taller and bigger, Takumi was highly skilled and fast, and the fight seemed fair. Matilde felt as though she was watching a Bruce Lee or Chuck Norris movie, the kind Ezequiel liked so much. She never would have imagined that these men knew how to jump like that or spin around in the air as if their bodies were as light as a feather. They held the swords with both hands and swung them around so quickly that sometimes the steel blades became silver lightning bolts in the air. Al-Saud dodged a two-handed blow aimed at his calves by flipping in the air and landing next to Takumi, so allowing him to attack from the side. Takumi stopped dead when he felt the blade of the katana on his ribs.

“You beat me fair and square, son.” He bowed to his opponent. “
Bonjour
, Matilde.”

“
Bonjour
, Takumi. I’m amazed by your skill. You’re fantastic.”

The Japanese man smiled and bowed slightly. Al-Saud sheathed the saber and hung it from its bracket; he wiped his face and came over to Matilde.

“Don’t hug me. I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Later we’ll bathe together.”

They kissed as if they’d forgotten that Takumi Kaito was still there, putting away the saber, collecting his clothes and dirty towels and tidying the gym.

“When you told me that day in the Japanese restaurant about your martial arts master, I never imagined you would be so good. I felt like I was watching one of the movies that Ezequiel liked when we were kids.” The name triggered Al-Saud’s bad mood. “What’s happened?” Matilde worried, and brushed back the hair that hid his left eye.

“Let’s go to the sauna. I’ll tell you there.” When he had her naked in his arms, surrounded by steam, he passed on Ezequiel’s message. “He says that Blahetter is asking for you.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Matilde said. “There’s nothing between us anymore. I’m very sorry that this has happened to him, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but seeing him hurts me and I don’t want to suffer.”

Al-Saud tightened his arm around her and kissed her shoulder.

“Thank you. I would have died of jealousy if you had wanted to see him.”

That night, still inside the Aston Martin, outside the building on Rue Toullier, Al-Saud felt his usual anguish with Matilde: he couldn’t muster the strength to let her go.

“This was the best weekend of my life,” she whispered, trapped against Eliah’s chest. “I’ve never been so happy.”

“I have a gift for you. Here.” He opened the glove compartment in front of Matilde and took out a long, padded case, the kind used for jewelry.

Matilde opened the cover and stared at the Christian Dior watch, which, she suddenly realized, was made of gold. It was in exquisitely good taste. It was a classic but original model, with a black leather strap, an oval-shaped face and a beveled gold edge and hands, which contrasted with the black face.

“Eliah,” she said, looking up. “It’s so beautiful. It must have cost you a fortune!”

“Not enough. I wanted to get a Rolex for you, but Juana advised me against it. She said that you don’t appreciate ostentatious things.”

“This watch is too much as well! Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to use that rubber watch that makes you late for everything and never tells you the right time. Are you going to reject my present? You’re not going to take it?”

“No, of course I’m not going to reject your present.” She took it out of the box. Al-Saud helped her to put it on. “It’s beautiful. But I don’t want you to spend money on me.”

“Who would I spend it on, if not you?”

Matilde threw her arms around his neck and kissed him until she made him abandon his defensive attitude and succumb to his desire for her. She had noticed how sensitive he could be, and was just as quick to anger as he was to get over it. He hated it when things didn’t go his way, like a spoiled little boy.

“Thank you, my love. The truth is that I needed a new watch. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“All I’ve done since we met is think about you.”

CHAPTER 14

The receptionist at the Hospital Européen Georges Pompidou informed him that patient Roy Blahetter was in room 304 on the third floor. Visiting hours had ended at seven in the evening. It was ten at night. Al-Saud went down the silent, empty hallway. He slipped into room 304 without knocking. Roy Blahetter was alone. He was sleeping with his broken leg elevated, held up in a full leg splint by a system of cords and pulleys. His ribs were broken, or at least cracked, judging by the dressing on his naked torso. His face showed that the beating had been ferocious. The sight of Blahetter in such a terrible state tempered the hatred he felt for him.