Obsession (Year of Fire) (61 page)

An hour later, smelling of Upa la-lá and with something in her stomach, Matilde fell asleep in the hollow formed by Eliah’s body. He watched her sleep with his head on his palm and elbow on the pillow. Every now and again he would bend down to kiss her warm cheek and inhale her scent. He couldn’t sleep himself; his mind was a whirlwind of suppositions and hypotheses. What could Blahetter have been working on before he died? What had he hidden in the locker at the Gare du Nord and behind the painting? Did he trade prohibited substances like his grandfather? It had felt strange to be in the same room as the head of Blahetter Chemicals.

The next morning, before Matilde woke up, he shut himself in his office and made two phone calls. The first was to his father’s best friend, Mauricio Dubois, an old Argentinean diplomat who lived in London.

“Uncle Maurice, it’s Eliah.”

“My son, what a pleasure! To what do I owe this surprise?”

“I have to ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

“An acquaintance of mine passed away last night in Paris. He’s Argentinean. I wanted to ask you if you still have those influential contacts in the government who can help the family get the body out of France quickly. It’s complicated, because it seems that he died as a result of an intentional poisoning, and the case is in the police’s hands.”

“Complicated, yes. Moving a body from one country to another is never easy. If police reports are in the middle of everything, things get worse. I’ll see what I can do. Give me your acquaintance’s information.” Al-Saud gave him his name. “Tell me, Eliah, are we going to see you this year at your mother’s birthday party? A few days ago she called your aunt Evelyn”—Dubois’s wife—“and invited us on Saturday the twenty-first of February, in the house on Avenue Foch.”

“I didn’t know my old lady was planning to spend her birthday in Paris. If I’m in the city that day and she invites me, I’ll go.”

“Oh, I don’t know if she will,” joked Mauricio.

As soon as he finished the call with Dubois, he called Inspector Dussollier’s cell phone.

“Olivier, it’s Eliah Al-Saud. I’m sorry to bother you so early.”

“Eliah! No bother at all, dear sir. Tell me, what’s up?”

“Last night the body of a young male was taken from the Hospital Européen Georges Pompidou to the police morgue. His name was Roy Blahetter.”

“Wait a moment. I wasn’t on duty last night, so I don’t know anything about it. I’ve just got into the base.”

“You’re there, at thirty-six Quai des Orfèvres?”

“Yes, I’m working Saturdays. Let me check. Spell the last name for me.” Al-Saud did so and heard him typing on a computer. “Yes, here it is. You knew him?”

“Not well, but I knew him. He’s Argentinean. His family is very devastated. I wanted to ask you if it’s in your power to accelerate the procedures so this nightmare can end and the Blahetters can take the body back to their country and give him a proper burial as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do everything I can. I’m friends with the head of Forensics, he’s a good guy. I don’t think he’ll mind giving this case priority.”

“Thank you, Olivier. I owe you another one.”

He called Thérèse.

“
Bonjour
, Thérèse. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning.”

“No problem, sir,” the secretary assured him. She was used to her boss’s eccentricities. The generous salary compensated for the feverish demands of a man with endless energy.

“I need to get a present for Inspector Olivier Dussollier from the Criminal Brigade at thirty-six Quai des Orfèvres.”

“What do you suggest, sir?”

“A pair of Cartier cuff links,” he decided, when he remembered Dussollier’s sartorial elegance. “I want him to get them today with one of my personal cards.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Send Medes to deliver the present.
Merci beaucoup
, Thérèse.”

CHAPTER 17

Matilde spent Saturday at the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus. She swam in the pool, watched movies with Juana in the theater, exercised in Al-Saud’s gym and tried to study French for the exam on Monday, because she was hoping to pick up where she had left off in her daily routine. She needed to forget the previous week: it had started with the attack outside the institute and ended with Roy’s death. Nonetheless, she couldn’t concentrate; she read without taking anything in and dithered over her practical exercises. She was haunted by the last time she had seen Roy, blue and emaciated.

Ezequiel called them several times; he was looking for the consolation that he hadn’t found in his parents, who were just as devastated as he was, while his grandfather wouldn’t say a word to him.

Aldo invited them to dinner at the Ritz, where he was staying. They both declined the invitation because it didn’t include Al-Saud.

“The Ritz isn’t cheap, is it?” asked Matilde.

“The most expensive in Paris along with the George V and the Plaza Athénée,” Al-Saud answered. “Why are you making that face? What are you worried about?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Matilde lied, because she wasn’t going to impose upon him with any more of her family problems.

On Sunday afternoon, Aldo called Juana’s cell phone to invite them, along with “that character,” to have a drink at the Vendôme bar in the Ritz. Matilde accepted, saying that she had to give him a copy of the new set of keys for the apartment on Rue Toullier so that Aldo could give them to Enriqueta. Al-Saud thought that Matilde just yearned to
see her father, and his suspicions were confirmed when he saw how effusively they hugged in the lobby of the Ritz. Aldo kissed her over and over again on the top of the head, the temple and the forehead, calling her, “My beautiful princess, my beloved princess.” Matilde whimpered and held her father tight. Except for a rapid squeeze of the hand, Aldo pretended that Eliah wasn’t there. In truth, he wasn’t being unkind or rude; he simply couldn’t look at him, because although he looked more like his father, there was a lot of Francesca De Gecco in the lines of his dark face. He was also beset by dark jealousy, something that he had never felt about Roy.

Matilde found the situation very awkward. Her unease diminished a little when her father ordered a coffee. She had been afraid that the voluptuous environment of the Vendôme, with trays of cognac and other spirits being whisked around by waiters from one end of the room to the other, would lead Aldo to succumb to temptation. All the same, her tension and discomfort persisted, a little because of Eliah’s presence and also because nobody dared to mention Roy’s death.

Al-Saud didn’t like the choice of table; it was too exposed. He didn’t want to worsen an already edgy situation by demanding a change, so he sat against a marble column to protect his back and gestured to Matilde to sit next to him. At first they just engaged in small talk, even remarking on how cold it was; then the conversation flagged, and they fell into an awkward silence.

“Papa, do you know if Roy was working on something important or dangerous?”

“No, I have no idea,” he answered quickly. The speed of his reply caught Al-Saud’s attention: he hadn’t stopped to consider the question, and this planted a seed of doubt. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the men who tried to kill them,” Al-Saud interjected, “were looking for something that Blahetter had given Matilde.”

“Papa doesn’t know about the attack, Eliah.”

“Yes, he does. Juana says that she told him.”

“It’s true, Mat. I told him.”

Matilde looked at them, disconcerted. They were always conspiring together.

“I know,” Aldo admitted, “and I thank you for protecting them from those evil men.” He glanced fleetingly at Eliah and then focused back on Matilde. “Don’t worry, princess. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

“Obviously! Because the stud is protecting us, otherwise…”

“Why did you come to Paris, Papa?”

“What do you mean why did I come? To see my princess.”

“You’re really living the good life, Don Aldo,” Juana commented as her dark Syrian eyes danced around the room, taking in the details of the Vendôme.

“I work hard and I like to treat myself.”

“What do you do, Don Aldo?”

“He’s a broker,” Matilde said defensively. “I already told you, Juani.”

“Mat and I never really understood what being a broker involves.”

“I buy and sell things all over the world.”

“And that earns you a lot of cash, it seems.”

“If you do it well and have a good network of customers, yes.”

“Papa, aren’t you going to ask me about Celia?”

“I already know all about your sister. Jean-Paul told me where she is and why.”

“Are you going to go see her?”

“They won’t let me. Not yet. I’ll come back when they allow her to have contact with family and friends. It’s what’s best for her.”

“When are you going to Córdoba?”

“When am I going? We’re going,” Aldo corrected her. “We’ll go with the Blahetters, when they hand Roy over.”

Another silence fell upon the table. Matilde felt the warmth of Al-Saud’s hand on her knee; he didn’t squeeze it, just left it there.

“I’m not leaving Paris, Papa. I’m going to stay.”

“Matilde! This is your husband’s funeral. How can you even think of saying that you won’t go? The Blahetters will be scandalized!”

“Papa…” Al-Saud felt her flagging and stroked her knee to infuse her with confidence. “Papa, Roy was my ex-husband. There is nothing left to tie me to his memory or his family, who always hated me anyway. I’m not going to waste my time trying to please the Blahetters. I came to Paris to achieve a goal and nothing is going to divert me from it.”

“I don’t really see how getting involved with this character is helping you to achieve your goal.”

“Papa!” Matilde stood up and yanked her coat off the back of her chair. Juana and Al-Saud followed her. “This character is called Eliah and he’s the best man on the face of the planet. Since you’re not capable of treating him in the manner he deserves, I’ll leave. Let’s go. I need to get out of here.”

Minutes later, as she was trying to put the tongue of her seat belt into the buckle, she noticed that her hands were shaking. Al-Saud helped her and kissed her on the cheek.

“Was that what you really wanted to do?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, “but it hurts me to be so mean to him.”

“If you had agreed to go to Córdoba, you would be furious and frustrated, wouldn’t you?” Matilde nodded. “Your father has to understand that he’s your father, not your master. Your life is yours, and only you can decide what to do with it. No one can interfere with that.”

“Not even you?” she asked, teasing him. Her brazen expression wasn’t so far away from a smile.

“Not even me,” he admitted, reluctantly.

As soon as the Aston Martin pulled out, Juana’s cell phone rang.

“It’s your old man, Mat.”

“I don’t want to talk to him now.” The confidence in her voice surprised her at first and then made her proud. Her rudeness had made her braver.

When they got back to the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus, Al-Saud shut himself in his office and called Chevrikov.

“Lefortovo, I need you to investigate a man called Aldo Martínez Olazábal. He’s Argentinean. And he says he’s a broker.”

“I haven’t heard the name before. As soon as I hear something, I’ll call you. Listen, Horse of Fire, I have the other thing you asked for ready, the retouched photographs.”

“I’ll come for them very early tomorrow morning, on the way to Le Bourget. What have you found out about Fauzi Dahlan?”

“Nothing good. He’s part of Kusay Hussein’s circle.”

“Saddam Hussein’s son?”

“One and the same. He’s currently in charge of the presidential police, who are something like the secret police. As far as I could tell from my Iraqi friends, Dahlan was Abu Nidal’s right-hand man.” He referred to the CIA and Mossad’s most wanted, a man who was accused of hundreds of murders and assassinations. “As ever with Abu Nidal, their friendship ended badly, and Dahlan put himself at the Iraqi regime’s service. They say that he’s in charge of the torture. With regard to Udo Jürkens, I regret to inform you that I have nothing on him. I spoke to my contacts in Hamburg and Berlin and they’ve never heard of him.”

On Monday morning, the katsas Diuna Kimcha and Mila Cibin were at the Mossad base in the basement of the Israeli embassy in Paris. They had requested a conference call with their boss, Ariel Bergman, and were waiting to be connected. They were anxious to share the information they had.

“
Shalom
,” said Bergman, and the katsas responded likewise.

Kimcha spoke first.

“The sayan at the Ritz advised us that Mohamed Abu Yihad has been staying there for two days.” Kimcha had used Aldo Martínez Olazábal’s Muslim name. “Furthermore, we were already aware that Adnan Khashoggi and Ernst Glatt have been at the Ritz for a week. Coincidence?”

Bergman absorbed the news for a few seconds during which his agents didn’t dare to disturb him.

“Nothing is coincidence,” said the boss. “Abu Yihad is looking to get weapons, that much is clear, and he’s planning on doing it through Khashoggi and Glatt. Khashoggi and Glatt may be illegal traffickers, but they traffic with permission from us and the CIA and are an invaluable source of information. Soon we’ll know who Abu Yihad is trying to buy weapons for.”