Obsession (Year of Fire) (78 page)

Fifteen minutes after the Israeli minister of transport and the top executives from El Al had left the George V, and while the partners of Mercure and the directors of the insurance companies were cracking open a bottle of Dom Perignon, Al-Saud’s cell phone rang. He recognized the thick Hebrew accent immediately.

“You got what you wanted,” said Bergman. “Now you have to keep your end of the bargain.”

“Tomorrow I’ll meet you at—”

“No, Al-Saud. Not tomorrow. Tonight. Now, if possible. We don’t have any time to lose. Over ten days have passed since the first article
appeared. Time is against us. My country’s government has to act. The international pressure has become unbearable.”

“In half an hour,” Al-Saud accepted, “At the Café Flore on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Can you get there in time?”

“Yes, in half an hour I’ll be there.”

As soon as he hung up with Bergman, Al-Saud asked Victoire to get in touch with Peter Ramsay. After giving some instructions to Ramsay, he said good-bye to his clients and partners and asked Medes to drive him to Boulevard Saint-Germain. He arrived before Bergman, and when the spy approached the table, Al-Saud raised a hand to stop him before he sat down.

“Mr. Bergman, you should go to the men’s room and wash up before you eat.”

Bergman immediately understood Al-Saud’s meaning. In the bathroom he found Peter Ramsay, who blocked the door with a wooden wedge on the floor.

“If you’ll allow me, Mr. Bergman.”

The katsa spread his arms so Ramsay could check him for weapons.

“This beauty will stay with me until the end of the meeting,” he said, slipping the Beretta into the front of his pants. Then he swept the Israeli with a frequency detector, without finding anything. “He’s clean,” he said, tilting his head slightly and speaking into the collar of his jacket. He took out the wedge that was blocking the door and, with a sweep of his hand, invited Bergman to go back to the restaurant.

“What would you like to drink?” Al-Saud asked.

“A coffee will be fine.”

“Two coffees, please.” He let the waiter leave before saying, “I imagine you already know that the meeting was a success.”

“For you and your clients. Not for my country.”

“Israel isn’t accustomed to loss; it’s difficult for you to accept. However, in such a complex matter, the cost was only seventy-three million dollars. Nothing to a country as rich as yours.”

“It’s not about money, Al-Saud, and you know that. It’s the image of Israel that has been damaged, maybe irreparably.”

Eliah let out a humorless laugh.

“Please, Bergman. You must already know that in the world of politics what’s black today can be white tomorrow and vice versa. In any case, I’m going to give you the key that will help make the passage from black to white quick and easy.”

“Talk, Al-Saud. They’re impatient in Tel Aviv.”

“It’s to do with the photos that were published.”

“What about them?”

“They’re forgeries.”

Berman stifled a curse while the waiter served the coffee.

“What are you talking about?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “The authorities from the Institute of Biological Research said that they belonged to their laboratories, that they were real.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Bergman. The photos that Dr. Bouchiki provided for us are authentic and, as we told you, very well guarded. The ones that were published are fakes made from the originals. An expert would detect it immediately.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you altered the authentic photographs to transform them into false ones?”

“That’s right. You see, it was never our intention to destroy you or put you in danger. Let’s say we just wanted to shake you up and get your attention. If your government demands that the
NRC Handelsblad
hire an expert to examine the photographs they used, the situation will be resolved immediately.”

“I have to assume that the
NRC Handelsblad
isn’t aware of this trick.”

“You assume correctly.”

“You will have just gained a powerful enemy.”

“More powerful than Israel and Mossad?”

Bergman didn’t have the chance to answer. Al-Saud answered his cell phone on the first ring. It was Derek Byrne. He seemed shaken up. In the background, Zoya could be heard screaming. He exchanged a few words with the bodyguard and jumped to his feet. He threw on his jacket and tossed a few bills on the table.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bergman. I have to go. Maybe our paths will cross in the future. Good night.”

Medes drove at top speed toward Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Al-Saud entered the building with his set of keys. There were people
gathered all around the door to Zoya’s apartment. He barged through them and knocked hard on the door.

“Byrne, open up. It’s me.”

The door opened by a crack. Al-Saud and Medes slipped inside. Zoya was curled up on the corner of a chair in the living room, sobbing. Claude Masséna was on the floor. Al-Saud immediately saw the pool of blood under the hacker’s head and the gun in his hand. He crouched down and put a finger on Masséna’s jugular. He didn’t have a pulse.

“He killed himself,” said Derek Byrne. “I didn’t get here in time to stop him. He took out the gun and shot himself, just like that.”

“Zoya,” said Al-Saud. He sat on the edge of the chair and brushed some hair off her face. “Come here.” He helped her to sit up and held her against his chest, where Zoya continued to weep weakly. “I know it must have been horrifying. I know and I’m sorry. Medes, bring me a glass of cognac.”

“Eliah, he told me that he loved me, that he had never loved anyone the way he loved me. He loved me! Do you understand? Me, a prostitute!”

“You’re a great woman, Zoya! What does it matter what you do for a living? I love you and consider you a great friend.”

“But you wouldn’t marry me!”

“Because I’m not in love with you, nor you with me.”

“He was…he was in love with me.”

“But you didn’t love him. Remember how you told me that you had had an overdose of Claude.”

“Yes, I know,” Zoya admitted, and seemed to calm down a little. She sat up and accepted Al-Saud’s handkerchief and the glass of cognac Medes offered her. “He knew that you had betrayed him over the National Bank of Paris arrest. He knew everything.”

“How did he find out?”

“One day he saw you coming out of this building and it wasn’t hard for him to put two and two together.”

“
Merde.
”

“He had always been suspicious about the help Mercure gave him while he was in prison. I don’t know, he figured it out on his own. You know how intelligent he was.”

“Zoya, listen to me. We have to report this to the police.”

“No…not the police,” she sobbed.

“Zoya, trust me. You’re not in this alone. I’ll take care of everything. We need to agree on what you’re going to say to the police. You’re an employee of Mercure Inc., in the public relations department. You’re on the payroll, so that won’t be a problem. And your papers are in order.”

“What will I say about Claude?”

“That you met at Mercure and that you were lovers. He shot himself when he found you in bed with someone else.” He pointed to Derek Byrne, who nodded. Al-Saud got out of his seat and turned to Medes. “Without taking off your gloves, go muss and up Zoya’s bed a little so it looks like it has been used. Byrne, take off your jacket and tousle yourself a little.” He went over to the window, where he took out his cell phone and looked for Inspector Olivier Dussollier’s number. “
Allô
, Olivier. Eliah Al-Saud speaking. I need your help. Something serious has just happened to a friend of mine, an employee of Mercure Inc.”

Al-Saud got home late. He was exhausted. A deafening silence greeted him. He walked from memory, not turning on the lights. He took off his boots at his bedroom door to avoid making noise. He didn’t want to wake Matilde. He should have taken a bath, because he reeked of cigarettes and Zoya’s perfume, but instead he stripped down and fell into bed, overcome by exhaustion. Matilde stirred next to him and opened her eyes.

“Hello,” she greeted him, her voice very sleepy.

“Hello, my love. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Al-Saud apologized, and drew her to his side to embrace her.

Matilde immediately smelled the woman’s perfume.

“What time is it?”

“Three fifteen. Keep sleeping.”

She was disappointed that he wasn’t looking for her to make love. Since the attack at the chapel, they hadn’t had sex, because she hadn’t been in the mood. But that afternoon when they went to the apartment on Rue Toullier to check the mail, she ran across
The Perfumed Garden
and was hit by a visceral desire for Eliah that intensified when he called her around eight to tell her that a setback would stop him from getting
home in time for dinner. She had waited up for him, anxiously killing the time by reading, until sleep defeated her. It must have been a light sleep, because she woke up as he was getting undressed. She stayed still, pretending to sleep, wanting him to wake her up to make love to her. He didn’t, and when he embraced her and she noticed the smell of perfume on him, she understood why: he had been with someone else. With that Gulemale, whom he had had dinner with when he was away? After his order—because no matter how sweetly he uttered them, his requests always sounded like orders—to “keep sleeping,” Matilde turned her back to him and curled into a fetal position. A few seconds later, she bit her lip when her eyes spilled over with tears. She repeated the same old story to herself: she had no right to claim him; in a few weeks she would be going to the Congo and everything would be over. It was for the best, especially when she recalled Takumi Kaito’s words.
“You should know, Matilde, that if you hope to keep a Horse at your side, and especially a Horse of Fire, you should never, ever restrict his freedom. Give him as much space as he needs, because there’s nothing a Horse of Fire appreciates more than being free.”
If she hadn’t been so afraid of going back to the apartment on Rue Toullier, she would have left the house.

The next morning, Tuesday, March 10, during breakfast in the kitchen, Al-Saud found out that Leila’s grumpy face was because Sándor had returned to his own apartment a few days before, even though he hadn’t recovered properly. Juana’s happy face, on the other hand, was because the night before, Shiloah had called her to invite her to spend a week in Tel Aviv.

“Now?” Al-Saud was surprised. “With the electoral campaign at such a critical stage?”

“I asked him the same thing,” Juana answered, “and he said he was going to take a few days to recover his strength before the final, hardest push. The only thing I regret is that I won’t be here on Saturday for your birthday, Matilde.”

“What does my birthday matter? We’ll celebrate when you get back.”

“I’m so happy! I never imagined that I would get to see Tel Aviv.”

“When are you going?” Al-Saud asked.

“Friday morning. Supposedly the ticket is being FedExed and will arrive some time between today and Thursday morning.”

“We’ll take you to the airport. What do you think, my love?”

Matilde just nodded, pensive and distant. Al-Saud frowned and stared at her. She was in a bad mood, and he didn’t know why. When he woke up, he hadn’t found her at his side. She was already in the kitchen, dressed and eating breakfast. He came over to kiss her and she kept her cup of coffee pressed to her lips, offering him her cheek. Before he left for the George V, he cornered her in the flower room, where he caught her looking out at the Andalusian garden.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie, Matilde. You’re transparent; you can never hide what you’re feeling.”

Don’t open your mouth, Matilde. Don’t even think about reproaching. Shut up.

“Something’s upset you and if you’re not going to tell me, I’ll assume that the problem is with me. Or are you having one of those days when women get all sensitive for no reason?” He said in a jocular voice, which vanished when he saw Matilde’s hurt face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t offend me. And no, I’m not having one of those days.”

“What’s going on, then? And don’t say
nothing
again.”

Bite your tongue, Matilde. Don’t say anything.

“My love, I don’t want us to have secrets.”

“Oh, so you don’t like secrets?”
Enough, Matilde.

“No,” he said, suddenly worried, “I don’t like them.”

“Whose perfume was it that you reeked of last night? Is that a secret?”

Al-Saud stood back and laughed, caught somewhere between worry and surprise. Matilde, meanwhile, was cursing herself for not having been able to keep quiet.

“Why didn’t you ask me last night? Why do I have to drag everything out of you as though it were an interrogation?”

“Because I don’t have any right to ask, but if you insist…”

“What do you mean you don’t have the right? You’re the only one to whom I grant that right!”

He embraced her hard, making no concessions to her slight figure or her fragility; he kissed her furiously, grabbing the back of her neck. He teased her with his tongue until Matilde’s surrender—her delicate moans, her hands gripping him, her trembling body—pacified him. With his lips still on hers, he said, “The perfume you smelled was from a woman. A friend of mine who called me last night hysterical because her lover had killed himself in her dining room.” Matilde stifled an exclamation. “I couldn’t leave her alone.”

“No, of course not.”

“I had to take care of everything. Calling the police, going with her to testify, getting her a room at the George V to spend the night. She couldn’t go back to her apartment because the police had sealed it off. And she didn’t want to go back.”

“Poor thing. What happened?”

“Her lover wanted to get married. She didn’t. And she wanted to end the relationship. Are we calmer now?” Al-Saud laughed when he saw Matilde blushing. “I’ve never known anyone to blush as much as you.”

“Forgive me, Eliah.”

“What did you think? That I had slept with someone else?” Matilde nodded. “It’s strange what I’m feeling. On the one hand, your jealousy makes me happy, I’m flattered by it; on the other, I’m hurt that you don’t trust me.”