Traffic came to a halt, and he checked his appearance in the mirror. His head was newly shaven, and was as smooth and white as marble. His glasses were polished and in the sleekest order. No suit today, but white linen trousers and a billowy black shirt with a scarf tied at the neck. He was a pirate ready to storm the Barbary Coast. A Chinese Captain Blood. Errol Flynn, beware!
It promised to be a busy day. Lunch at the Martinez with an American film executive. Tea at the Carlton with a French distributor. Then home to get ready for his big night. A facial. A manicure. A massage, if there was time. At five p.m., a car would arrive to take him to the Palais des Festivals. There would be a press call, then the walk on the red carpet, a speech to the audience before the film began. And then, voilà: the world would get to see the wondrous project into which he’d put his very heart and soul.
But before any of that, a visit to the office of festival security.
A roadblock at the Boulevard de la Croisette stopped traffic dead. Traffic barriers lined the sidewalk. More soldiers patrolling. Policemen advanced on his car from every direction. All necessary, thought Sun, feeling safer because of them.
Several years earlier, on a warm summer night in Nice, a terrorist had commandeered a large truck and mounted the Promenade des Anglais, the broad pedestrian thoroughfare bordering the sea that ran the length of the town. Driving at high speed, he had mowed down hundreds of tourists, carving a mile-long path of death and destruction. Over eighty innocents were killed; dozens more injured, many severely. The French would not permit a second occurrence.
Sun extended his credentials through an open window along with a letter from festival organizers. The letter instructed him to appear that morning no later than eleven o’clock with two forms of government-issued identification at the office of festival security, where he would be issued a second set of credentials and tickets that would allow him to attend the premiere of his own movie.
The policemen moved the barrier aside and gave him directions where to park. Sun squeezed the Bentley through the gap and drove the short distance to the Palais des Festivals. The road ran parallel to the sea. Even with the rain, the Croisette bustled with activity. Banners hung from every streetlamp. Great billboards looked down on the street advertising one film or another. Reporters from television channels and entertainment journals around the world could be seen doing stand-ups in front of cameras. Executives strode imperiously to their next meeting. And there it was: the billboard for his movie. As he’d insisted, the largest billboard on the Croisette. It mirrored the film’s namesake in the Louvre, a still showing the refugees clinging to a raft, really just an assemblage of debris from the sunken ship, hardly seaworthy, one man clearly dead, another half conscious, most strewn in poses of despair, but among them, one raising an arm high in the sky, head held high, and there at the far edge of the picture, the very, very top, the faintest outline of a ship. Salvation.
Toto, thought Sun, tremendously excited by it all, we’re not in Jakarta anymore.
Sun parked in the subterranean garage behind the Palais and took the escalator to the main building. He found the security office tucked away in the rear of the ground floor. Thor Axelsson, the film’s Icelandic director, had arrived before him, along with members of the production team and film crew. Sun was quick to note that some personages were missing.
“Where are the boys?” he asked the director, referring to the principal actors, “the four Mohammeds” who portrayed themselves in the film.
“On their way. A bit of a drive.”
Sun had arranged for the four African actors to stay at the Ibis Motor Lodge just outside of town. It wasn’t the Carlton, the Martinez, or the Du Cap, but as first-time actors they could hardly demand the finest lodging and amenities. The cost to transport them from their homes in North Africa and the Middle East was already astronomical. Further, he wasn’t sure they possessed the requisite social skills to stay for days on end at one of the five-star hostelries that lined the Croisette.
There was a last reason. He didn’t want any of his actors to get into trouble. Sun had the Indonesian’s instinctive misgivings about those with darker skin. He’d seen them on the film set, and their crude behavior had done little to change his opinions. Either way, it was easier to keep them outside of town and bring them in for the premiere and any other press functions. He didn’t want anything to spoil his big night. Samson Sun had every intention of returning to Cannes in the future. Next time, it would be with a film boasting big-name stars. A-listers only.
There was a commotion in the anteroom. The sound of furniture banging. Raised voices. Sun clutched his shirt to his throat as a pair of soldiers barreled into the room, followed closely by the four Mohammeds. Several uniformed policemen crowded in behind them.
“Please,” said Sun, presenting himself to one of the soldiers. “Is there a problem?”
“These men, they work with you?” The soldier was broad and red-faced and brutal, with a tattoo running up the side of his neck and arms as large as cudgels. His name tag read, GALLONDE.
Sun nodded furiously.
“None has brought with them proper identification.”
“That’s impossible,” said Sun. “We submitted copies of their identifications before traveling. All of them have been issued credentials.”
The four Africans showed the badges hanging from their necks.
Gallonde paid them little attention. “Every person visiting the festival is required to carry two forms of government-issued identification with them while inside the festival perimeter. The badges are not enough.”
Sun frowned. No one had ever asked him to show anything other than his festival credentials.
Gallonde picked out Mohammed from Tunis and Mohammed from Algiers, grabbing them by the collars. “These gentlemen have only their passports. Both will expire in less than six months. This, too, is a violation. They should not have been allowed into the country.” The soldier then pointed to Mohammed from Marrakech and Mohammed from Alexandria. “And these two only have their refugee cards. No passport. The photographs are insufficient.” He exhaled angrily. “They could be anybody!”
“Officer Gallonde,” Sun began, in crisis mode, “I thank you for your diligence, your courtesy, and your professionalism. Let me assure you that these men are who they appear to be. You have my word.”
“They are actors? Really?” Gallonde appeared unconvinced.
“The stars of my film.”
Gallonde didn’t like it, not one bit.
Thor Axelsson, the director, stepped forward to attest to the fact. “We worked together many months. They are who they say.”
Just then the door to the office flew open. In rushed Jean Renaud, the festival director, in a state. He made his way to Gallonde and rattled off a barrage of questions, his indignation apparent, accosting the soldiers and policemen before they could respond.
Turning to Samson, he offered a heartfelt apology, on behalf of himself, the festival, and the French Republic. Samson realized he still had a lot to learn about groveling. Renaud then returned his attention to the offending officers, shooing them out of the room.
On his way out, Gallonde gave Sun and the rest of them a scathing glance. He would remember them. Just try and get out of line. See what happens.
With the help of Jean Renaud, Sun, the actors, the director, and all other interested parties were issued their credentials and tickets for the world premiere of The Raft of the Medusa, to take place at the grand Palais des Festivals that evening at six o’clock. TENUE DE SOIRÉE was printed on the bottom of the tickets. Black tie obligatory.
A last member of the creative team had not come for her credentials: the film’s screenwriter, M. L. De Winter. But Sun knew her to be a capricious and temperamental sort. She had phoned the day before with a promise to attend. Sun didn’t really care one way or the other. He was planning on wearing an ivory tuxedo from Tom Ford and looking sensational. He, Samson Sun, would stroll down
the red carpet alone. The photographers could take as many pictures of him as they liked. It was going to be the most memorable night of his life.
Chapter 64
Gstaad, Switzerland
It was called the Chalet Edelweiss, and what the name lacked in originality, it made up for in splendor. Sitting atop a grassy hillock and framed by a wooded mountainside, the Chalet Edelweiss was three stories high, as wide as a European city block, and built in the traditional Swiss style with extended eaves, painted shutters, and window boxes filled to overflowing with geraniums. A flagstone terrace circled the home. The red field and white cross of the Helvetic Confederation flew on a pole in the garden, snapping in the fresh breeze. The only thing missing, thought Danni Pine as she gazed up at the house, was Heidi, Peter the Goatherd, and Grandpapa blowing his alphorn.
It was 9:15.
She was late.
But then, when had an Arab ever been on time?
Danni continued on her walk up the road. She was dressed to “go wandere,” as the Swiss called hiking—in knee-length shorts; a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows; sturdy boots with conspicuous red woolen socks; wraparound sunglasses to shield her eyes from the sun; and a knit watch cap to conceal her black hair. She walked with her hands dug into her pockets, a rucksack dangling casually from one shoulder. As she walked, she whistled tunelessly if only to distract herself from her fatigue.
It had taken Avi Hirsch and his unsleeping team less than thirty minutes to identify the name, occupation, and approximate location of Luca Borgia’s correspondent. The phone belonged to the vile personage of Abdul Al-Obeidi, deputy chief of the Mabahith, the Saudi Arabian secret police, and the call had been placed in or near the town of Gstaad, high in the Bernese Oberland. Hirsch had required an additional thirty minutes to scour Al-Obeidi’s file and discover that his family owned property in Switzerland in or around the same location. Namely, the Chalet Edelweiss, purchased for five million Swiss francs in 1989, currently valued at twenty-one million.
A private jet was commandeered from the air force and lifted off with Danni, its sole passenger, at 4:25 a.m. local time, landing at the Gstaad regional airport, the Flugplatz Gstaad-Saanen, at 8:20. She had with her a change of clothing and a bag of tricks Hirsch had provided for the occasion.
Danni continued another two hundred paces until well out of sight, then cut through a cherry orchard separating two homes and circled to the rear of the chalet. She sidestepped down the hillside, taking care to move from one tree to the next. She saw no indication of activity. The windows were closed, some shuttered. Every few steps, she stopped and listened. Only the chirping of the birds and distant roar of cars zooming along the Schönriedstrasse marred the calm.
Slipping off her rucksack, she opened the top pouch and removed a matte black Glock 18, making sure the extended thirty-three-round magazine was in place, slipping a second mag into her pocket. The pistol was capable of firing in fully automatic mode at twenty-rounds per second. She wasn’t the most accurate shot. She flicked the fire selector to FULL AUTO. Better safe than sorry.
Next she removed a handheld TPD—a trace particulate detector—to check the air for explosive isotopes or chemical taggants emitted by all plastic explosives. She turned it on, checked that it was functioning properly, and stuffed it into her pocket.
She wore an earpiece and a mike on her collar, and via secure phone spoke to Hirsch, who was in the ops center in Jerusalem. “Going in.”
“Careful.”
She folded down the brim of her cap, revealing a miniature GoPro camera. “Getting it?”
“Clear as a bell.”
Ten steps took her to the back door. A lightning glance through its paned windows. No one. She tried the handle. Locked. She kneeled. Out came the electric lockpick. She tucked the pistol into the waist of her pants, inserted the pick into the jagged opening, hit the charger. The lock yielded.
She freed her pistol and entered the house.
Stop. Listen.
Silence.
A long hallway. Wood floors. Doors on each side. Open one. The next. Pleading for the planks not to creak. The rooms empty.
Into a great hall. A stairway hugging one wall. One step, then stop. Across the hall, a door standing ajar. A light burning behind it.
Danni dashed to the door. Another stairway, this one leading to the basement. Concrete stairs. Thank goodness. The smell of damp earth, closed quarters. And then something else. Men’s cologne. Danni held the pistol tighter, her finger resting on the trigger.
Down the stairs. Another corridor, a string of bare bulbs burning overhead. A great steel door at its end, one meter thick at least, and standing ajar. She drew out the TPD. The readout flickered, red numerals climbing steadily: 600…700…800. The isotope count was off the charts. Plastique for sure. Semtex or C-4.
She entered the bunker. A worktable set on wooden sawhorses. Fragments of wire, batteries, and little slabs of putty. No, not putty. Plastic explosives. Orange, meaning Semtex. Her boot sent something skittering across the floor. Nuts, bolts, nails, ball bearings. A plastic garbage bin lay on its side.
“He was here,” she said, so quietly as not to be heard at all.
“Careful,” said Hirsch, his voice scratchy, distant, reception weakening. “Langsam.”
Danni came closer, scouring the bits and pieces of bomb-making materiel, and picked up a small circuit board, hardly the size of a playing card. She recognized it as a component from a cellphone. It was used to detonate an IED or a vest by placing a phone call to initiate the charge, usually in cases the bomber might lose his or her nerve. She slipped her own phone from her pocket and snapped a picture of it, sending it to Avi Hirsch and the boys at the office. A navy-blue plasticine wrapper lay by her foot. She bent to pick it up. A label read, SEMTEX. PRODUIT DE LIBYE. Product of Libya.
She took a picture of this, too.
Across the floor, a toolbox sat, still open, and in disarray, not yet straightened up by its owner. Danni froze, her every nerve on edge. You left trash behind. You left tidbits of wire and electronics behind, even explosives. But no one ever left his toolbox behind.
She turned and there he was. An older man with a bit of gray hair, half-moon spectacles, and wearing a cardigan vest. Ten steps separated them. The pistol in his hand was pointed squarely at her chest.
“You aren’t Abdul’s daughter,” he said.
“No,” said Danni. “Quite the other thing.”
She raised her gun.
Chapter 65
Cannes
Mattias and the others had arrived at the safe house sometime after five a.m. The rustic stone cottage sat high on a forested hillside ten kilometers above the town of Grasse. A man had been waiting in the drive. It was Sheikh Abdul from the mosque in Gothenburg. He had greeted them as if they were family, directing them to park the car inside a hay shed, before leading them inside and feeding them an early breakfast of warm milk, coffee, baguettes, and fruit.
After a fitful sleep, Mattias rose to meet the morning of his final day. As he stepped outside onto a gravel terrace, a warm drizzle falling, he smelled the fragrant air. It was the smell of lavender and saffron and thyme. Grasse was the world’s most important manufacturer of perfume, and most of the ingredients used were grown in the area. He looked to the south, to the body of water that began some twenty kilometers distant and stretched to the horizon. The Mediterranean lay calm and placid beneath a low, gray sky. His thoughts drifted to the water, to a sunny day five years ago.
Once the sea had tried to kill him…
The Medusa sailed from the port of Sirte on September the sixth. It was a blustery, blue sky day, strong offshore winds, whitecaps as far as the eye could see, the boat swaying at dock, making passage of the gangplank hazardous.
When Mattias had arrived at the dock, he believed that he had come to the wrong place. The boat he was to travel on—the Medusa—already appeared to be full. Every square inch of the deck was packed with me
n and women standing cheek by jowl. And yet, two hundred more waited to board. It made no difference. The handlers continued to hurry the passengers aboard, forcing them into a cavernous hold belowdecks. It was into this dark hell that Mattias descended for the three-day voyage.
He had barely set foot inside when the stench overcame him. Everywhere men and women were vomiting, already nauseated by the boat’s violent pitching and rolling. Though it was blustery on deck, no wind penetrated the fiberglass hull. The temperature inside was 90 degrees and rising. There was no water to drink other than the liter bottle he had brought with him. And no food, except for the packet of nuts and dates he had stuffed into his small travel bag. The single toilet was broken, overflowing with waste. Still more passengers came aboard.
Mattias, born Ibrahim Moussa, had arrived in Sirte a day earlier, after a month’s journey from the city of Nemharat in the Atlas Mountains, 1,200 miles to the south. He was twenty-one years old, a son of a sheepherder, tall and lean, hungry for life’s rewards but without the education, the barest minimum of wealth to be anything more than what his father had been, and his father’s father. Disease had ravaged the flock. Summers were hotter; winters colder. Two years before, he had traveled to Nemharat for work. At first, he’d found a job in a leather-tanning factory. The work was grueling, twelve hours a day, six days a week, a thirty-minute break for lunch, usually tea and bread, his monthly salary two hundred dollars, eight dollars a day. Of this, half he sent to his family. He lived in a boarding house. Men slept in six-hour shifts, then made way for the next, fifty in a room, one toilet, an outdoor shower that often did not work.
One day he was fired. No reason given. He remained in Nemharat for a year, doing odd jobs to survive. Selling tea on the street, digging graves, cleaning the abattoir. Even for these jobs, competition was fierce. He lived on a dollar a day, often going without food.
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