“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 a
round 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.
Roy’s eyelids eased half-open.
“What are you doing here? Where’s Matilde? I need to see her. She and I need to talk. Tonight. Right now.”
“She doesn’t want to see you. I, on the other hand, have something to show you.” He took a small Sony video camera out of a black case and held it in front of Blahetter’s face. “Recognize anything?”
Roy stared at the images of him with that woman he had met in the bistrot Au Bascou, engaged in a sordid and violent sexual act. He turned his head on the pillow to look away. Al-Saud could feel his despair. That wouldn’t work for him. He needed him cornered and furious.
“Good images for a porno film,” he said, with Zoya’s moans and Blahetter’s screaming and cursing in the background. “What would Matilde say if she saw this?”
“What do you want?” he asked, without looking at him.
“Information. Documents. Proof. Your family’s laboratory illegally trades prohibited substances. Dimethyl methyl phosphate and thionyl chloride, among others. I need you to get the documentation that shows that these substances are exported, the clients they’re sold to, the quantities, the destinations. Everything.”
“Why do you need it? To bring down my grandfather?”
“Your grandfather doesn’t matter to me.”
“So why do you need this information?” Al-Saud obviously had no intention of answering him. “And if I refuse?”
“I don’t think you’d like it if this recording ended up in your wife’s hands.”
“You would never show it to her.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
Blahetter struggled to smile, then grimaced immediately in pain as the cuts on this lips reopened.
“I know Matilde. I know what she provokes, that uncontrollable desire to protect her, to love her. I know that you’re in love with her. You wouldn’t have showed up at my brother’s house and made that scene if you weren’t. I understand. She’s like a fever that takes hold of you.”
Al-Saud suffered a second of uncertainty.
“And yet you caused her unforgivable pain.”
“Believe me, what I did to her ruined my life. And I will always pay for that drunken mistake.” After a silence, he continued, “Do it, Al-Saud. Show her the film. I’ve lost her already. You think I don’t know that? Nothing matters to me now.”
Eliah clicked the camera shut and put it in its case. The beating had demoralized Blahetter. Perhaps he should try in a few days, but he didn’t have that kind of time. The insurance companies were putting pressure on them, and Mercure needed to get payment for the work as soon as possible.
“I could get what you’re asking for money,” Blahetter announced, surprising him. “I would do it for five hundred thousand dollars.” He was asking for significantly more than he would need to construct the prototype of the uranium centrifuge.
Al-Saud looked at him fixedly. Five hundred thousand dollars. He had that money—Bouchiki’s payment had never gone through.
“I want it in cash.”
Al-Saud agreed with a nod.
“I need the information in seventy-two hours. Otherwise, I’ll have no use for it.”
“Okay.”
“Blahetter, I’m not going to pay you five hundred thousand dollars for photocopies. I need documents, inventory records, accounting records, proof of shipment, everything to prove irrefutably that Blahetter Chemicals sells and exports dimethyl methyl phosphate and thionyl chloride.”
Ezequiel came into the room. He carried a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a straw in t
he other.
“What are you doing here?” he shouted.
“Ezequiel,” Roy intervened, “calm down. Al-Saud just came to talk. And he was just leaving.”
“I’ll be in touch with you within forty-eight hours,” Eliah said, and turned to leave the room.
“Al-Saud,” Roy called. “Take care of Matilde. Protect her. She’s your responsibility now.”
Al-Saud nodded and left.
“What the hell was that guy doing here and what the hell happened to you that you’re talking to him like that? The beating must have left you half-stupid.”
“Shut up, Ezequiel, and give me a sip of water.” Roy drank from the straw his brother held for him. “I need to speak to Pedro Testa. Now.”
“Now? Are you nuts?”
“Don’t argue. Please, do what I ask.”
Their cousin Guillermo Lutzer had won plenty of enemies on his frenzied path to the presidency of the Blahetter Group, including Pedro Testa, an adviser to his grandfather Guillermo who had been with him since before the name Blahetter had meant anything in Argentina. The power struggle between Pedro and the younger Guillermo had become a trial of strength, replete with low blows and dirty schemes, which Lutzer had ended up winning. The elderly German, tired and depressed since his estrangement from his grandson Roy, took the vice-presidency from Testa and awarded it to Guillermo. Testa had been sent to another laboratory in Pilar, outside Buenos Aires, with the same six-figure salary he had received when he held the vice-presidency. Testa’s wife told him that he had come out on top: he had far fewer responsibilities and continued to receive the same salary. Pedro didn’t see the situation in the same way; he considered it a betrayal and an insult. He had been humiliated and discredited in a business sector where his name had previously been uttered with respect.
Obsession (Year of Fire) Page 39