“And me? You think he’ll kill me?”
“You tell me. You know Borgia better than I do.”
Sun bit his lip, a hand caressing his smooth scalp, eyes darting here and there. The plotting and scheming and conniving had begun.
Simon went on: “I’m afraid that after word gets out of your involvement not only in defrauding your own country’s funds but also in setting up investments to defraud many others, you won’t be producing many more movies. Unless you can produce them from jail.”
“If, that is, you live that long,” said London.
“Did you come here to threaten me?”
Simon sat down in a rattan chair near Sun. “I came to ask you if you are part of Prato Bornum.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell me.”
Sun pulled a face. “Prato what?”
Simon considered this, not taking his eyes from Sun. He was as dishonest as the day was long, functionally amoral, incapable of discerning right from wrong, concerned only with furthering his own best interests. But…he wasn’t a killer.
“Has anyone come to you and asked you to do anything out of the ordinary regarding the premiere of your movie this evening?”
“I don’t understand the question. I have nothing to do with the premiere, other than to attend it and speak to the audience.”
“Samson, listen to me. This is your chance. Your one opportunity to mitigate all the crimes you committed at PetroSaud. If you can tell me anything about the attack that Luca Borgia has planned this weekend…anything at all that might help us to stop it…I’ll make sure your efforts won’t go unrecognized. The court looks favorably on contrition and cooperation.”
“Attack? What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?”
“Who do you think I am? I’m a creative professional. A motion picture producer. I’m stunned. First you tell me Luca Borgia wants to kill me. Now you speak of an attack. What kind of attack? What am I to say?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Simon. “My guess is that it’s tonight. At your premiere.”
Sun hauled himself out of his chair and walked to the bar, taking a bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge. “I tell you this right now, Mr. Riske. No one is going to interfere with the premiere of my motion picture.”
Simon went to the bar and took a bottle of mineral water for himself and for London, opening them, and handing one to her. He returned his attention to Sun and said: “Has Luca Borgia ever had any involvement with your movie? Think about it for a second.”
Sun shook his head violently. “Never. Why would he? I barely know him. It’s been years since—” He stopped.
“Since what?” asked London.
“It was years ago…”
“Go on,” said Simon.
“He might have been the one who told my aunt about the documentary.”
“The documentary?”
“They were at lunch. His foundation had been approached by a British researcher who wished to make a film about the refugee crisis, in particular the story of the Medusa.”
“M. L. De Winter?”
“Yes. Aunt Nadya said Luca was laughing about it, saying the woman was certainly barking up the wrong tree. Of course I immediately recognized it for what it was: a tremendous idea.”
“Of course you did,” said Simon.
“Did Borgia know your aunt well?” asked London.
“A little too well from what I gather,” said Sun, dripping sarcasm.
“They were intimate?”
“If that’s what you call rutting with a brute like that, then yes. He seduced Milady, too. I’ve never forgiven her.”
“Milady?” said Simon.
“Our screenwriter. That’s her first name. Milady De Winter. It’s her nom de plume. You know, from the novel. The Three Musketeers.”
Simon gripped the bottle harder, sure it would shatter, wondering if his shock was visible. He’d suspected it for days now, had dredged up one excuse after another not to believe it. Here it was. Proof. Alexandre Dumas couldn’t have come up with anything better himself. Small world.
Sun’s eyes left his, newly engaged by something else. Something behind Simon. A look of surprise, then terror. There was a wet whisper, a fléchette blown from a dart gun. The left lens of Sun’s eyeglasses shattered. He staggered. Blood, dark as wine, flowed from the ruined socket. The diminutive producer toppled over backward, lay motionless on the floor.
“Hello, friend,” said a smooth, South African–inflected voice. “Good to see you again.”
Chapter 67
Grasse, France
The vests looked smaller than Mattias had imagined. Black nylon. Sleek. Professional. A succession of pockets circling the waist. A zipper and straps to secure it. He saw no wires; then again, he would not be responsible for detonating the explosives contained inside it.
Four vests for four men.
“Once you put it on,” explained Sheikh Abdul in a kind, patient voice, “you can never again take it off. After I have secured it, you must consider yourselves as having died and entered paradise. Do not be frightened. It will be easier this way. You will feel freer. What is there to worry about? Your soul has already passed to a higher plane and joined your ancestors. Your destiny is assured. You will feel only peace. The pains of this world are behind you. We should all be so blessed.”
Mattias stood inside the bedroom alongside the men with whom, in the space of a few hours, he would end his life. The four looked on with rapt expressions. None appeared frightened. They had made their decision long ago. They would be happy to be finished of it.
“When you are inside the great palace,” the sheikh continued, “you will take your seats and wait for the film to begin. It is essential that every last member of the audience be allowed to enter. Even one more infidel’s death will please Allah. Ten minutes after the film has begun, you will rise from your seats, walk to the aisles, and take up your assigned positions, each of you occupying one corner of the auditorium. You will feel nothing. Perhaps a last pleasant sensation of warmth. It will be Allah embracing you to his bosom.”
The sheikh looked from one man to the next, blessing them with his regard. “Questions?”
No one said a word.
“Who shall be first?”
Mattias stepped forward. He wore only his underwear, socks, and T-shirt. The vest might chafe his skin. It was essential that each man appear relaxed and comfortable. They had been ordered to smile as they strode the red carpet. To wave. To be the picture of happiness. Later, all would comment on their fearlessness. The world would know the Magnificent Four.
Sheikh Abdul lifted one of the vests in his hands solemnly, as one might lift the Koran during prayers. Mattias turned and placed his arms through the openings one at a time.
“Remain absolutely still,” said Sheikh Abdul.
The sheikh came around to face him, carefully zipping up the vest, stopping just shy of the bottom of his neck. The vest was heavier than Mattias had expected, twenty pounds at least. He could feel the shrapnel inside the pockets, and he thought there must be a lot of it for it to poke through the fabric of the vest. This made him happy. He hoped his vest was the most powerful ever constructed.
The sheikh stepped closer, the tips of his fingers white as he closed the final snap. With care, he opened the breast pocket. Inside was a small flat red button affixed to some type of circuit board. The sheikh pressed the button very hard. A tiny bulb flashed red three times, then burned green steadily.
Mattias felt no differently now that he was dead. He had made his peace when he left his wife in their bed in Gothenburg. To his mind, he had died long ago, somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
The sheikh kissed him on both cheeks, then once additionally. “Peace be unto you, my son. Inshallah. God is great.”
Thirty minutes later, Mattias walked to the front door followed by his friends. All were dressed in fine eve
ning wear. Dark jackets and matching trousers. Shiny black patent-leather shoes. A white collared shirt and bow tie. All had showered and shaved earlier. No beards were allowed. None had ever looked more handsome.
There came a knock at the door. A man Mattias had never seen entered and handed Sheikh Abdul a package. A moment later, he was gone. The sheikh opened it and removed four laminated badges, each attached to a beaded-metal lanyard. He examined the pictures on each and handed them out in turn.
Mattias studied the picture on his badge, knowing that the man was dead. The sheikh had told him it was necessary. The actors could not be trusted. Surely they had been corrupted. Mattias did not know how they had been killed. It did not matter. The sheikh knew about such matters. Once he had let slip that he was a professional. Mattias only worried that someone might find them before the premiere. Then what?
He did not recognize the face on the badge, nor did he remember it from the raft. The man, Mohammed Tabbi, resembled him only in passing. They shared the same high cheekbones, the same shape of the eye, a similar nose and cut of the jaw. Nothing more. Were anyone to place it beside Mattias’s face, the game would be up in a matter of seconds. But Mattias knew that he looked at men from his part of the world differently than a European might.
Minutes later, a van arrived. The sheikh escorted them from the cottage and helped them climb aboard. The vest was unnoticeable. Mattias might look a bit stockier than usual, but he was a thin man to begin with. Now he looked average. He breathed in the evening air, exulting in the sharp fragrances. Dusk was beginning to settle. The sky was yet a rich and welcoming blue. Through the back window, he saw Sheikh Abdul waving goodbye.
Mattias raised his hand and smiled.
Chapter 68
Cannes
Last I saw, you were lying on the ground handcuffed to a table leg,” said Simon.
“It seems we both have a unique talent for looking after ourselves.”
“I haven’t learned how to let myself out of jail yet. You have me there.”
“You need a better class of friends.”
“I like mine just fine,” said Simon. “Mind if I turn around?”
“You think I would shoot a man in the back?”
Simon turned, hands raised, held away from his body. He didn’t want any mistakes. He was acutely aware of the pistol stuck into the waistband of his pants, hidden only by his untucked shirt. Had he chambered a round?
“It’s over, Kruger,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, unthreatening. “It’s all coming out. Everything Borgia has been up to these past years. It’s done.”
“Says who?”
“The evidence is overwhelming,” said London. “Hadrian Lester knew it. He decided to take the coward’s way out.”
“Lester,” said Kruger with contempt.
“You can help us stop it,” said Simon. “Where is the attack taking place? Shaka, please.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m here to make sure the attack takes place. Once you and the lady are gone, it will be easy to clean up the mess.”
“Others have seen the files,” said London. “It’s all saved to the cloud. My newspaper has it all. No one can suppress the information.”
“And we will find those people and make sure we put an end to their activities. It’s what we do.” Shaka smiled inquisitively. “Riske, tell me, how did you discover my name?”
“It’s not just us. Others are involved. Governments. Intelligence agencies. They know all about Borgia and what he’s planning. There’s still time.”
“Chain of command. First thing you learn in the military. Colonel Tan forgot it. He tried to tell Borgia what to do. Me, I don’t bother with the bigger issues.”
“A loyal soldier.”
“Meine Ehre heisst Treue,” said Kruger, echoing a Nazi slogan. My honor is loyalty.
“I thought the Germans ditched that one after World War Two.”
“We are who we are,” said Kruger.
“Why did you kill Mandy?” asked London.
“She was the only person I could think of who might have had an idea where you were. I couldn’t allow her to inform you. Besides, she’d have written the story in your absence.”
“So will someone else.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“And at the airport?” said Simon.
“Borgia insisted on giving the Swiss a shot at you. He didn’t want you to get a step closer. To your credit, I was confident you would slip through their fingers.”
“Especially since you weren’t there to help them.”
“I owe you, brother.” Shaka shook his head, eyes narrowing, sizing Simon up. “Too bad you can’t come over to our side. Mr. Borgia would like you.”
“The feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Not to worry. I wouldn’t allow it to happen. You might steal my job.”
“Doubtful. I prefer something with a little more security. I’ve got a feeling you’re about to become unemployed.”
“I see things differently.” Shaka tossed Simon a small metallic box with a digital readout on its face. “Radioactive isotope detector. One of our boys painted you at the Zurich airport. Uranium-239. A little spray on your clothing. Done quickly. No smell. Virtually unnoticeable. Extremely rare. We can get a read on its signature at three kilometers. Don’t worry, sweetheart, it won’t kill you. We only use a little bit. And, no, we didn’t follow you from Zurich. Why bother? We knew there were only a few places you might go. We picked you up on the autoroute coming into Nice, then at the port. From there, we didn’t need a damned thing; we could see you from a mile away in that red machine.”
Simon lowered his hands, a sign of capitulation. He needed to distract the man, just for a second. “And now?”
Shaka checked his watch. “Show’s beginning soon. Did you figure it out?”
“I think so.”
“Clever bastards. I’ll give them that. The last people you’d suspect. The actors. Mr. Borgia is convinced all will go smoothly. It’s my job to be on-site in case it doesn’t.” He crossed the room, the pistol hanging at his side. An invitation. “Here’s what happened: You came to confront Samson Sun about his activities working for Hadrian Lester and PetroSaud. Sun broke down. Frightened for his freedom, he pulled a gun to shoot you. You were also armed. It appears that no one survived.” A smile. “Darling, will you move closer to Mr. Riske. I don’t think Samson Sun was that good of a shot.”
“Stay where you are, London,” said Simon.
Shaka raised his pistol, the fat barrel of the noise suppressor pointed at him. “Time to say our farewells.”
A gunshot. An ear-shattering crack.
Shaka fell forward, off-balance, a gaping hole below his shoulder, gore everywhere. In a moment, the blood had drained from his face. A second shot. Plaster exploded from the wall inches from Simon’s head. Simon threw himself to the ground. Kruger fell to a knee, fired a shot into the floor. Slowly, he raised the gun, eyes locked on Simon.
A third shot. Shaka’s head dissolved in an opera of blood, bone, and brain. He fell face down on the carpet.
A tall, fit woman clad in black pants, black T-shirt, hair pulled back, advanced into the room, large-caliber pistol held in both hands. She moved the pistol to all points of the room. “Was he alone?”
“Yes,” said Simon. He hadn’t even cleared the pistol from his waistband.
“Everyone okay? You, there?”
London said she was, then was sick on the floor.
“And you?”
“Still in one piece.” Simon pointed to the hole in the wall inches from his head. “You almost got me.”
“I’ve always been a terrible shot.” She stood above Shaka, appraising his corpse without emotion. She had done this before.
“Do we know each other?”
The woman lowered her pistol. “My name is Danni.”
“Simon Riske.”
“Yes, we know.”
Simon recognized the
accent as Israeli. “We?”
“Gabriel sent me.”
Chapter 69
Antibes
Luca Borgia hurried through the park-like grounds surrounding the Hôtel du Cap. He saw the man seated alone on a bench set among a copse of olive trees. Young, Middle Eastern, dressed in a suit and tie—if not a client of the hotel, an associate or friend of one.
“I came at once when I saw the text,” said Borgia. “What is it?”
“I have a message from Abdul Al-Obeidi.”
“Why didn’t he call?” asked Borgia, sensing at once that all was not well.
“Please sit. The Doctor is dead. Killed this morning at the chalet in Gstaad. An assassination.”
“Who?”
“As always, we suspect the Jews.”
“But how?”
“We must assume our lines of communication are compromised. My superior asks that you no longer contact him until such later date as specified.”
“And tonight? Are we to go ahead?”
“There is no indication that the French security forces are taking additional actions.”
“Do you know this for certain?”
“We have men at the highest level of their security apparatus. I have spoken to Sheikh Abdul. The chosen ones are on the way.”
The man took a flip phone from his pocket. It was the kind of phone one purchased for thirty euros at a kiosk or convenience store.
“The number has been programmed into the phone,” he said, handing it to Borgia. “The battery is fully charged. When you are ready, simply hit the ‘send’ key.”
“And it will send a signal to all four?”
“Simultaneously.” The man made the sign of an explosion with his hands. Then he rose and walked away.
Borgia watched him go, weighing the course of action he must take. The vests had arrived. The bombers were on their way to the festival. He looked at the phone. He could place the call now. End it once and for all. It would be worse if they were captured alive. They would be made to talk, to reveal all they knew. There was the location of the safe house, the identity of the man they knew as Sheikh Abdul. They would disclose the payments. The money would be tracked down to a numbered account at an offshore bank in the Caymans or Liechtenstein or Vanuatu, one of thousands maintained by the Saudi Mabahith. More proof.
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