Obsession (Year of Fire)

by Florencia Bonelli

  Sabir Al-Muzara and Shiloah Moses had convinced the participants to stay in Paris and continue the discussions on the creation of a two-nation state in what was formerly known as the British Mandate for Palestine. Before the journalists dispersed, Peter Ramsay took to the microphone and set out the requirements that needed to be met to participate in the convention. The only positive outcome of the attack was the interest from the press; press numbers were expected to triple on Wednesday, as would Mercure’s workload, because accrediting so many people in such a short space of time would mean administrative chaos.

  Having finished press rounds in one of the hotel rooms, Al-Saud and his partners shut themselves in the offices on the eighth floor to organize and reinforce the security measures. His trusted staff, including Dingo, Diana, Sándor and Axel Bermher, had gathered to contribute to the design of the new plans. At nine p.m. they decided to stop and continue in the morning.

  He liked to remain in the suite at the George V when everyone else had left. He would turn out the lights, open the curtains and admire the illuminated fountain in the internal garden. During that first moment of peace and quiet, his mind went over the events of the morning, from Matilde’s expression when she saw Sabir Al-Muzara to the discovery of the bellboy’s cadaver. He focused on his own memories, trying to grasp an image that had slipped away from him in the swarm of faces, shouting and vivid confusion during the attack in the convention room. In the middle of the tumult, he had had the impression that he had seen a face from the past, one he would never forget; it was just for an instant, then the face had disappeared in the blink of an eye. Perhaps he had imagined it, but the attack had revived memories of the one in ’81, when a group of four terrorists from the German Baader-Meinhof Group attempted to kidnap him along with his mother and his sister, Yasmín. He leaned on the window frame with his arms stretched out, let his head hang loose and squeezed his eyes shut to put the experience out of his mind. He breathed deeply and pictured Matilde’s smile in his mind. Then he called her. Juana answered and spoke to him in a whisper.

  “Mat’s sleeping, stud. She was exhausted when she got home from the institute. She took a bath and went straight to bed.”

  “She didn’t eat dinner?”

  “No dinner. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she eats a huge breakfast tomorrow.”

  The frustrated phone call worsened his already filthy mood. He wanted to hear her voice. Matilde possessed an intangible quality that, like music, soothed the burning stallion inside him.

  He telephoned the base and asked to speak to Claude Masséna.

  “Hello, Masséna. Has the list of guests from the George V arrived?”

  “Yes, sir. Two hours ago. Dingo brought it.”

  “I want you to scrutinize the identity of each guest. I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to go home tonight.”

  “We already anticipated that, sir. The girls and I will stay. We’ll have the report tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s happening on the news? What more have they said about the attack?”

  “Nothing new, sir. The truth is there is a lot of confusion, because, unlike other attacks, they don’t know who the target was, if it was Mr. Moses or the writer. Hamas and Hezbollah have been mentioned a lot. They’re also suggesting that it could have been an attack by extreme-right Zionists. They’re mentioning names like the rabbi Moshé Levinger and the ultra-right parties Kach and Kahane Chai. Do you know what’s happening, sir? They still have the killing by Baruch Goldstein in Hebron and the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin in their minds.”

  “Thank you, Masséna. Call me on a secure line if you come across anything important. Whatever the time. Good night.”

  He threw on his jacket, set the alarm and walked toward the exit. He opened the door and stopped suddenly. Gérard Moses was standing in front of him. They looked at each other in open confusion. They hadn’t spoken in months.

  “Brother!” Eliah exclaimed.

  “Shariar found me at the door of the George V and let me in,” Moses explained, needlessly. “How are you, my friend?”

  They hugged each other, slapping each other’s backs heartily.

  “Come in, come in. It’s so good to see you!”

  Al-Saud unlocked the door and disconnected the alarm. When he turned around, he discovered Gérard staring at him.

  “Today had to end like this,” Al-Saud ventured, “with one more surprise. Though this is the first good one I’ve had today. Come in, sit down.”

  “Shariar was telling me about what happened this morning. I’m sorry. I know your business was in charge of the security.”

  Al-Saud gave him the facts, and Gérard, who was well versed in the political situation due to his relationships with so many governments and businesses, offered his hypothesis. As always, the conversation with his childhood friend flowed naturally and easily, and it didn’t matter how much time had passed or that they had fallen out of touch. When they saw each other again, everything was just as it had always been.

  “You’re still the most brilliant man I’ve ever met,” Al-Saud confessed and Gérard hid his jubilation at hearing these words under a brief smile. He lived to obtain Eliah Al-Saud’s approval, to receive his hugs, his smiles and confessions.

  They ate dinner in the Mercure meeting room, and Gérard was pleased when Eliah suggested they eat oysters, his favorite dish. You haven’t forgotten me, Horse of Fire, or my tastes. To celebrate the reunion, Al-Saud ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon, which he took a sip of after toasting his best friend’s health. Gérard drank the rest, and Al-Saud wondered if the porphyria and medication would allow him to get away with the excess. He found him elated, cheerful and relaxed. He observed Gérard as he gave him an account of his recent comings and goings. Even without knowing him, it wasn’t hard to see that he was a peculiar person. The porphyria had left its mark, in spite of Berta’s loving care. The scars on his cheek, nose and fingers were evidence of excessive exposure to the sun. The overly bushy eyebrows, thick eyelashes and hairy hands and forearms—he had rolled up his sleeves to eat the oysters—were symptoms of a body trying to protect itself from photophobia; he even had fuzz growing on the bridge of his nose and sprouting from his ears, which Gérard got rid of himself using hot wax. He also had other signs, such as the brownish tint of his teeth and the strange pigmentation of his skin; his urine was probably very dark. Al-Saud had researched Gérard’s type of porphyria and it tortured him to know that the irreversible progress of the illness would eventually lead to the deterioration of his autonomous nervous system. His friend was condemned to insanity. The thought caused him a profound sadness and made his eyes sting. He cleared his throat and brought up one of their favorite subjects: planes.

  Gérard listened and admired him in silence. The mixture of blood that ran in Eliah Al-Saud’s veins—Italian from his mother’s family and Arabic from his father’s—had created this superb creature, not just in terms of physical beauty but the quality of his indomitable, noble and brave spirit. And this extraordinary man considered him his best friend.

  The conversation ranged widely and then took an unexpected turn: Gérard showed an interest in Eliah’s love life.

  “Are you seeing someone?” The private investigator had assured him that he was having a secret affair with the famous model Céline.

  Al-Saud lifted his head and looked his friend in the eyes. He wasn’t going to talk to him about Matilde or the happiness they shared. He loved Gérard like a brother and there were few he felt so at ease with, but he had always felt guilty for being healthy and strong and free while his friend was imprisoned in the darkness and condemned in a few years to insanity. He realized that he didn’t want to admit to him that he had never been happy until he met Matilde. Like counting your money in front of the poor, his grandmother would have said.

  “Nobody special,” was his answer. “You know, here and there. Since Samara died I haven’t had any serious relationships.”

  “Did the po
lice find out anything more about Samara’s accident?” Al-Saud shook his head and looked down. “And that girl Natasha? You didn’t hear anything more from her?”

  “She vanished into thin air. I never saw her again. Like you do sometimes,” he said, reproaching him with a smile that quickly vanished. “Why do you do that, Gérard? Why do you disappear for months at a time? We don’t hear anything from you. I’ve been calling you on the number you gave me in Belgium, but I always get the answering machine.”

  Gérard was preparing to answer him when a knock at the door interrupted them.

  “It must be the waiter, coming to collect the dishes,” Al-Saud conjectured, standing up. Gérard followed him.

  It was Shiloah Moses and Sabir Al-Muzara, flanked by Dingo and Axel.

  “Didn’t you go to my house?” Al-Saud asked Sabir.

  “We were planning Wednesday’s meeting,” Shiloah answered for his companion.

  “Come in.”

  Shiloah stopped dead in the doorway when he saw his older brother, who was equally affected by the coincidence, to judge by the way his eyes were widening.

  “Gérard!” Shiloah moved toward him to hug him. The other withdrew.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Please, Gérard,” Al-Saud mediated, and gestured for his men to stand guard outside.

  “Please, Gérard? Please, what? I have to put up with this guy just because he’s my brother by blood? Of course, his blood didn’t inherit the disease passed on to me by the son of a bitch of a father we share. That bastard and my brother have always looked down on me and humiliated me. I don’t have to put up with it now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Shiloah asked, hurt.

  “Please,” Sabir intervened, raising his arms to shoulder height as though he were trying to stop two boxers fighting in a ring. “Let’s talk like civilized people. If not, Shiloah and I will leave.”

  Al-Saud collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh of disgust, stretched his arms across the back and threw his head back. The icing on the cake, he thought. The perfect close to a horrific day: a fight. He stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t pay any attention to the accusations the Moses brothers lobbed back and forth at each other or Al-Muzara’s attempts to intervene. “Our father only loved you and you took advantage of that!” “Berta loved only you but I was her son too! She was yours and yours alone. And I never complained or tried to intervene because I knew you needed her more than me.” “Because I’m an invalid, a repugnant freak of nature. Aren’t I?” “I’m tired of you hiding behind your illness!” “I wish you knew what it was like to have this porphyria!”

  “Enough!” Al-Saud jumped to his feet. “Enough!” The warning in his voice and the frown that hardened his features revealed his frustration and exhaustion. The other three looked at him in shock. He never raised his voice and did not anger easily. “This argument has to end! I’ve had my worst day in years and I don’t have the patience to deal with this pathetic display.”

  “Tell this individual to leave so we can continue our conversation.”

  “Gérard, I’m not going to tell one of my best friends to leave my office. He’s your brother, for the love of God!”

  “My brother,” he repeated with a sardonic smile.

  “Yes, I’m your younger brother. I have always loved and admired you. I admire your intelligence, your brilliant brain…”

  “You just want to impress Eliah and Sabir! You want to make them think that you love me when I have always been the butt of your jokes and snubs.”

  “You’re lying! Why are you lying?”

  “Enough!” Al-Saud grabbed his hair in his hands. “Gérard, please, how can you say that your brother treats you badly? In twenty-five years, I’ve never seen him insult you or make fun of you.”

  “You believe him,” Gérard declared.

  “I believe what I see. I believe in reality. And the reality is that Shiloah never hated you.”

  “Why, Eliah? Because you prefer him? I’m your best friend!”

  Al-Saud looked up at the ceiling. Suddenly, they were sounding like spoiled children.

  “It was thanks to me that you discovered and learned to love planes. I taught you everything you know…”

  “Of course, Gérard.” Al-Saud stopped him. “You know I’ll always be grateful to you for that, but right now I have to tell you that you’re being unfair.”

  “What a great actor you are, Shiloah!” Gérard yanked his jacket from the back of his chair. “You’ll do well at politics in that insignificant country filled with Nazis, racists and Imperialist toadies. You’ll probably end up as the prime minister.” He turned to face Eliah. “I never thought you would betray me like this. You’ve broken my heart.”

  “Please, Gérard. What are you talking about? Why are you reacting like this?”

  “You were my only friend, Eliah. My only brother.” My only love. “Today is a very sad day for me.”

  He spun around and left the suite. When he looked up, Al-Saud saw Shiloah’s eyes brimming with tears.

  Claude Masséna reviewed the list of guests at the George V from the previous fifteen days. A name caught his eye: Udo Jürkens. Hello, Udo! Hanging around my dear boss again? His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. He entered the Rent-a-Car system, and verified that the car with the license plate 454 WJ 06 was still being rented by Jürkens. If the guy decided to return it to one of the offices in Paris, Masséna had a chance to intercept him. The returns process was usually bureaucratic and time consuming and, as the system processed the data in real time, he would know the moment it was happening. This was a rare opportunity that he wouldn’t miss out on. He would program an alarm so that the system would advise him when 454 WJ 06 was being returned.

  Ever since the afternoon when he had seen Al-Saud leaving Zoya’s building, many of his doubts and questions had been answered. Claude suspected that Udo Jürkens might be useful in helping him to get his revenge.

  The seriousness of the attack in the George V convention room meant another trip for Ariel Bergman on the high-speed Thalys train from Centraal station in Amsterdam to Gare du Nord in Paris. Once more, the katsas Diuna Kimcha and Mila Cibin led him through the bowels of the Israeli embassy on Rue Rabelais where the Mossad offices were located. There, he met Greta and Jäel, the bat leveyha—Mossad officers a grade below a katsa—who, passing as members of Peace Now, had witnessed the attack. They spent hours going over the events and conjecturing.

  “What does our sayan in the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire say?”

  “Nothing yet,” Diuna reported. “This morning they gathered the test results and now they’re analyzing them. As soon as he has any relevant information, he’ll get in touch with us.”

  “Have you reviewed the guest list from the hotel?”

  “Luckily, the George V uses the Primex system,” Mila explained. “We were able to hack it without any trouble. Here’s the list.”

  Ariel Bergman unfolded the piece of paper and quickly read down the page, following the list of names with his index finger. He stopped suddenly.

  “Have you looked at this list?”

  “Yes,” Mila said. “I just skimmed it.”

  “And you don’t have anything to say about it?” The agent looked at him with open confusion. “Udo Jürkens is on here. According to this record, he’s staying at the hotel. Coincidence?”

  “Coincidences don’t exist,” Diuna said, repeating one of the maxims from their training at The Institute.

  “Something here smells very fishy. We’ll have to pay a visit to the hotel tonight, although I’m telling you now that we won’t find Udo Jürkens there. What do we know about the car he rented?”

  “He still hasn’t returned it.”

  “Pay attention, boys. That will be our only chance to catch him. And let’s pray that he returns it in Paris instead of some other city in the European Union.”

  “We’ll alert the offices in all the principal citi
es,” Mila contributed, trying to make up for having missed such an important fact.

  They prepared a report on the attack for the new general director of Mossad. Moving on immediately, Bergman used a remote control to start a film and switched to another topic.

  “These are the arms dealers Mohamed Abu Yihad and Rauf Al-Abiyia, the Prince of Marbella. Here, we see them in Port Banús in southern Spain. Abu Yihad’s real name is Aldo Martínez Olazábal, an Argentinean with a very interesting history.” He quickly summarized the salient facts of Aldo’s life. “Before he went to prison in Argentina, Al-Abiyia didn’t represent a threat. But a while ago, he and his new Argentinean partner strengthened their ties with the people from Tikrit”—he meant Saddam Hussein and his entourage—“and the money is pouring in. A few days ago, an informant from Johannesburg told us that Abu Yihad is finishing a deal to buy red mercury.” This was a chemical component used to make highly toxic radioactive bombs. “The instructions are clear: Abu Yihad and Al-Abiyia must disappear.”

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