He checked into a hotel near the airport and, using his laptop, uploaded to the mission website the encrypted photos and intel he had collected, the image of the Swiss drug contract, his thoughts on the Bukhari hadith and the constellation al Jabbar. Then he requested immediate information on the mosque’s companies and on the whereabouts of the two Ukrainian ships, the Donetsk and the Zaina.
Just before he fell asleep, Scorpion tried to convince himself he wasn’t a total failure because he hadn’t caught even a glimpse of the Palestinian’s face. He thought too about pimping the woman, Anika, and dropping her into the little Moroccan’s life like a tornado, destroying it completely. It left him wondering if, somewhere in the moral calculus of the universe, the lives of those who could die if he didn’t get to the Palestinian in time outweighed what he was doing to save them. And then he fell asleep and dreamed that he was driving the A2 at night, only every car’s driver was a man with no face, and when he looked in the rearview mirror, he had no face either.
His cell phone rang a few minutes before six in the morning. On the other end, a voice that could’ve been Rabinowich, though he wouldn’t swear to it, said: “Remember kindergarten? Four left Mombasa two days ago, bound for Marseilles. Last was supposed to be in Marseilles, but they have no record of her. We’re still checking,” and he hung up.
Scorpion got up and looked out the window, trying to clear his head. He felt like he had barely slept. It was before dawn, the light a shadowy gray and the window wet with a fine drizzle.
By “kindergarten” Rabinowich meant the first days of learning codes during CST training. “Four” was the fourth letter of the alphabet, D, for the ship, Donetsk, and the “last” letter of the alphabet was Z for the Zaina. There were red flags all over this. Mombasa in Kenya was a known smuggling port for al-Qaida terrorists based in Somalia. Both ships were headed for Marseilles. He called the concierge, who checked and told him there wasn’t a flight from Amsterdam to Marseilles till late in the day, but if he hurried he could just catch the Thalys train from the Schiphol Airport station to Paris, and from there connect to the high-speed TGV train that could get him from Paris to Marseilles in three hours.
Within forty minutes Scorpion was boarding the Thalys train to Paris, ordering a café américain and a croissant from the bar on the train. He had arranged with the concierge for the hotel to return his rented BMW at the airport. He sat by a window and watched as the train sped past the suburbs and polders of Holland, his face and hair still wet from the drizzle. Al Jabbar, the Giant, was some kind of key to the code the Al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya was using. But there were still so many loose ends. If the Zaina wasn’t in Marseilles, where the hell was she? And then there was what Groesbeck had said, that twenty-one kilos of U-235 was nowhere near enough. And that the mosque holding company had made a deal to buy up the entire inventory of a new antibiotic. All loose ends, except that it was obvious that Al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya had gone operational and the clock was ticking down.
The Thalys train arrived mid-morning at the Gare du Nord. It was still drizzling in Paris, and he had to run to grab a taxi and race to the Gare de Lyon. He barely managed to catch the TGV, the French ultra-high-speed train to Marseilles, with only minutes to spare. He was still breathing hard as he entered the first class carriage, and it was with a sense of anticlimax, almost inevitability, that he spotted the final loose end. Sitting in a table seat by the window, looking very beautiful but not at all happy to see him, was Najla Kafoury.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Le TGV, Paris-Marseilles, France
“And what am I to call you today, Herr Cr—”
“McDonald. Damon McDonald,” Scorpion said, interrupting her. They were sitting across from each other over glasses of Bordeaux in the TGV first class carriage. Through the window next to them the green fields and trees and clusters of tiled houses of the French countryside flew by, punctuated by flashes of telephone poles. The only sound was the murmur of conversation and the steady hum of the train on the tracks. The electronic readout above the door at the end of the car indicated that they were traveling at 296 kilometers per hour.
“Umm, what happened to poor Herr Crane and his strange sexual habits?” Najla said, glancing at the window as a village train station flashed by in a second.
“Don’t know. Seems you ran away before we could find out. Speaking of which, where did you go after I left you?”
“Back to Germany.”
“No, you didn’t. And you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Lying when you don’t have to. Not that I hold it against you, but it slows things down,” he said.
“What makes you so sure? I could’ve gone back.”
“You weren’t on N-TV. If you were back, they would’ve said something.”
She shrugged. “I’m not that important.”
“Now I know you’re lying. You are many things, but modest isn’t one of them.”
“You say I lie, but you don’t care. Why?” Najla asked, brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. She had taken off her Burberry and wore a simple white blouse and gray slacks. On anyone else it would have looked like a day at the office, but on her it was Fashion Week in Paris, and there wasn’t anyone in the carriage, male or female, who didn’t steal a glance at her.
“Professional courtesy. We’re both in the lying business.” He grinned. “So where did you go?”
“I talked to women in the Amsterdam sex trade to look for leads.”
“Is that part of your TV reporter training?”
“You’d be surprised what a girl has to do to get on these days. So, does Herr McDonald share Herr Crane’s dirty little urges to tie women up, have sex, and then leave them?”
“Which bothers you more? That I tied you up or that I let you go?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, liebling. You’re attractive, but not that attractive.”
“I went back, you know. To the hotel, but you were gone.”
“If I had known, I might have waited.”
“Why? Do you like men who abduct you and tie you up so much?”
“Let’s just say you did it with a certain charm.” She smiled enigmatically. “So why are you going to Marseilles?”
“For the same reason you are—and please,” he said, holding up his hand, “spare me the one about how you’re being on this train is a coincidence. And don’t waste my time with the latest installment of Intrepid Najla, Girl Reporter on a Mission.”
“Why bother? You wouldn’t believe me,” she said, glancing again at the landscape whizzing by. Another TGV flashed by their train in the opposite direction with a roar and was gone in seconds.
“Why should I? The only true thing you ever told me was your name, and I already knew that.”
“More than I know about you,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“Touché. Being in France is improving your dialogue,” he said, and grinned. “What led you to Marseilles?”
“A source.”
“A male source?”
“Now you sound jealous, liebling,” she said, dipping her little finger into the wine and licking the wine from her finger with her lips. “What difference does it make?”
“Actually, none at all.”
“Did I tempt you with what I did just now?” she asked.
“Yes, you did, you little sexpot! But it doesn’t matter because I know you’re lying.”
“How do you know?”
“You opened your mouth.”
At that, she laughed loud enough to make everyone near them look at her.
“Shh!” he said, grinning as he held his finger to his lips. “We have to stop. Even if it is fun.”
“You are a rare one, Herr McDonald. Prost.” She raised her glass and took a sip.
“Zum wohl. What happened to your job on television?”
“I am auf anweisung … how do you say, on assignment. I told them I will be returning soon.” S
he sipped her wine. “So, are you going to tie me up again?”
“Not so long as you stay right next to me. It’s no longer a question of whether you’re an agent. The only question is for whom.”
“So we’re partners?”
“Or enemies.”
“How will we know which?”
“We won’t. Not till the chips are down.”
“Like most relationships between men and women,” she said. “So what are we doing in Marseilles?”
“What did your ‘mysterious’ source tell you?” he asked, signaling the attendant with the snack cart for more wine and a couple of croissants.
“Only that the Islamisch network in Nederland was going to send someone to Marseilles. Truly, why are you going to Marseilles?”
“I’m looking for a ship.”
“Good. You know more than I.”
“If I do—and you’re actually telling the truth—it’s the first time, on both accounts,” he said, reaching for money to pay the cart attendant.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marseilles, France
The sun was shining as the TGV glided into the train station in Marseilles. They took a taxi to the port. Not the old Vieux Port, with its fish market and pizza vans and tourists gazing out at the bay and the islands, including the notorious Chateau d’If of Count of Monte Cristo fame, but the Nouveau Port, the enormous modern harbor complex, one of the largest in Europe, north of the Vieux Port. While on the TGV, Scorpion had spent a half hour on his cell phone to work his way from department to department to set up an appointment with the director for Black Sea shipping operations at the port. The guard at the entrance to the port directed the taxi to a large concrete office building a block from the quai. A sign on the building read: PORT DE MARSEILLE FOS—DIRECTION DES OPERATIONS ET TERMINAUX.
As they walked inside, Najla asked: “Who am I supposed to be on this expedition? Your assistant?”
“My mistress,” Scorpion said, pushing the door open.
“You know, I’m not sure I like you,” she said as he gave his name to the security guard at the desk.
“It’s not a job requirement, not even for mistresses,” he replied, picking up a Paris Match to read while they waited in the small lobby. After a few minutes a young man came and guided them to a second floor office. A dark-haired Frenchman in shirtsleeves and tie behind the desk gestured for them to sit.
“Je suis Fabien Bartini, le directeur de la mer noire et oriental—expédition européenne. Et vous êtes le mandataire pour la compagnie de FIMAX, n’est ce-pas, monsieur?” he said.
“I’m an attorney representing their interests,” Scorpion said in English, handing Bartini a business card. “I’m trying to locate the MV Zaina.”
“And this beautiful mademoiselle is…?” Bartini said.
“Ma amie, my girlfriend,” Scorpion translated for Najla’s benefit.
“He wishes,” Najla said.
“Alors…” the Frenchman said, looking at Najla.
“About the Zaina, Monsieur le Directeur? I understood she was due to be in Marseilles yesterday but never arrived. Where is she?” Scorpion asked.
Bartini checked his computer for a moment. “She’s on her way. She made an unscheduled stop in Genoa. She’s due to berth at 2245 hours tonight. If you wish, I can arrange a pass.”
“Why did the ship go to Genoa?”
“There was a death on the Zaina,” he said, looking at the computer screen. “The capitaine.”
“The captain. Isn’t that unusual?”
“Yes, but people die at sea. It happens.” Bartini shrugged.
“Is there any evidence of foul play?”
“I have no idea. One can contact the Italian authorities.”
“Why couldn’t they unload the body in Marseilles?”
“I do not know, monsieur. Hmm, c’est intéressant,” he said, peering at the screen.
“What is?”
“One sees that they unloaded three TEU containers from the ship in Genoa.”
“Unusual because the stop was unscheduled?”
“To unload such a small number of containers is unusual,” Bartini said.
“Any idea what the cargo was?”
“One does not know, monsieur. For such matters you must contact the freight forwarders. In any case, the Zaina will be here in…” He checked his watch. “… seven hours, and you can talk to the ship’s officiers yourself. And with that…” He stood up to let them know it was time to leave. “Bien sur,” he said to Najla. “You, mademoiselle, are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
“One is tempted, monsieur. There’s something about Frenchmen,” Najla said as she and Scorpion stood.
“What about the Donetsk? Where is she?” Scorpion asked.
Bartini tapped on the keyboard and checked his computer screen.
“At the moment, the Suez Canal. She’ll be here in two and a half days. Do you want the pass?” he asked.
“If you please,” Scorpion said, and waited till Bartini scribbled something on a pad and handed it to him.
As they left, he said: “If you come again, bring your jolie amie.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Najla said, extending her hand for Bartini to kiss, which he did.
They took a taxi outside the port gate to the Corniche Kennedy to check into a hotel for the night.
“A single room?” Najla said as Scorpion handed a credit card to the front desk clerk.
“After Amsterdam, I didn’t think it was an issue,” he said.
“Are you going to tie me up again?”
At that, the desk clerk glanced up at them, a smirk on his face.
“Only if you want me to,” he said, signing the check-in slip. He sent her up to the room to freshen up while he intended to go to the hotel’s business center to log on to the Internet.
“Suppose I go away again?” she said.
“You won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you’re watching me as much as I’m watching you,” he said, walking away.
Scorpion got on the Internet at the business center, but there was little new from Langley. CIA and NSA cryptographers were using the al Jabbar lead as a key to crack the code and said they should have something for him soon. They were investigating the cover companies and the Swiss drug company he had sent them, but despite the pressure from Washington, the Luxembourg authorities as well as the Swiss, as expected, were dragging their heels. Peters had been recalled from Amsterdam. For the time being only the security guard was listed as missing from the Utrecht mosque, and Accounting was balking at paying for Anika, the Amsterdam call girl, as “Miscellaneous Operational Expenses.” He logged out with the feeling that Langley was just wasting his time. Rabinowich still hadn’t told him the one thing he needed to know: who the Palestinian was, or at least something that would help identify him.
He bought a new cell phone in the hotel lobby shop and made a call to an ex-DGSE agent, Didier Zardane, whom he had worked with on the Paris piece of the Saudi coup operation, and who, he’d heard, was semiretired to a mas he was renovating near Aix-en-Provence. Didier picked up the call on the first ring and expressed no surprise at hearing from a Monsieur McDonald he had never met. They arranged to meet over dinner in Marseilles at a restaurant Didier suggested. It was near the Cours Julien, which Didier called by its local name, the Cours Ju.
The restaurant by the Cours Ju was small and dark and smelled wonderfully of garlic and bouillabaisse. It was off the square, in the artsy quarter crowded with bars and cafés, south of the Canebière, Marseilles’s main street. Scorpion, as was usual, was early. He sat with Najla over drinks of pastis. While they waited, he picked out three ways to exit the restaurant in an emergency and was confident there were no other agents staking them out, although the middle-aged Corsican whose glance had fallen on him and Najla and moved away as soon as he saw Scorpion was aware of him, was almost certainly of the milieu, as the underworld was
known in Marseilles.
Didier came in, spotted Scorpion and immediately came over and without preamble sat at their table. He was tall, thin, with graying, wavy hair, wearing an Armani black leather jacket. In a flowered shirt, he could have passed for the man in the Tommy Bahama ads. Scorpion remembered him as the one who had fingered Gerard as an FSB double agent.
“Qui est-elle?” Didier said, meaning Najla.
“We’re not sure. I’m holding her close,” Scorpion replied in French.
“She could be opposition?”
He shrugged. “Langley says no, but one never knows.”
“You could terminate the chatte,” Didier said, deliberately using the vulgarity. “Or have you grown sentimental?”
“Am I part of this conversation?” Najla asked in English.
“Very much so, mademoiselle,” Didier said.
“For smuggling arms, drugs, and such, who is running things at Marseille Fos?” Scorpion asked in English.
“La CGT,” Didier said, pronouncing it “say-jay-tay.” Scorpion chuckled at the joke. The Confederation Generale du Travail was the national union that represented the dockworkers.
“Pas mal,” Scorpion said. “They must miss you in Paris.”
“Paris can va te faire foutre,” Didier replied, indicating what Paris could do to themselves. “They’re all like Americans now. All they know are computers and stupidity.”
“Back to my question, who in the milieu could get it through the port? Is it still les Corses?” meaning the Corsican mafia.
“You know la Brise de Mer? The Sea Breeze,” Didier translated for Najla.
“Sounds like the name of a boat,” she said.
“It’s the name of a bar in Bastia in Corsica,” Didier explained. “It’s where the gang started.”
“Who’s the vrai monsieur?” Scorpion asked, using the Corsican slang for a gang boss.
“Cargiaca. Albertini Cargiaca is the paceri,” Didier whispered, motioning them closer. “As the title indicates, the one who can enforce the peace. What is this about?”
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