Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

  “Were you able to sleep on the plane?”

  “Not five minutes,” Juana answered. “Your little childhood friend”—she pointed to the backseat—“picked up a hot, an extremely hot, stud sitting next to her and they talked all night. I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

  Ezequiel contemplated Matilde in the rearview mirror. He raised one of his eyebrows and the corner of his lip, a look Matilde knew well that made her blush.

  “A hot, extremely hot, stud, eh?”

  “Yes! Dark, with green, earth-piercing eyes. He was as tall as you, Eze, maybe even a little taller, nice and thin, but with firm muscles. An ass that’d give you a heart attack and a bulge that almost left me cross-eyed.”

  “Juana! You always exaggerate!”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Saint Matilde of Assisi! Also, Eze, he wore A*Men, Thierry Mugler’s new cologne. Do you know it?”

  “Of course. It’s lovely.”

  “Well, imagine all the people…” she sang, quoting John Lennon’s famous song, “a man like that in aftershave like that.”

  Matilde buried her nose in the handkerchief. A*Men, by Thierry Mugler. She committed the name to memory. She looked at the letters embroidered in blue thread: E, A and S, Eliah’s initials. A for Albert? André? Alexander? What was his last name? Enough!

  Ezequiel announced that they were getting close to Rue Toullier, in the Latin Quarter, or Quartier Latin.

  “How do you pronounce it?” Matilde asked.

  “Cartiay Latan.”

  “What district are we in?”

  “In the Sixième Arrondissement. The sixth,” he clarified.

  “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

  “Your aunt Enriqueta’s apartment is close by the Sorbonne and a few blocks from Luxembourg Palace and Gardens.”

  Ezequiel drove down Rue Soufflot and turned right onto Rue Toullier, a narrow block still in shade at that time of the morning. Juana pointed out the café on the corner, Soufflot Café, but was disappointed to find it closed. They stopped at number nine. The building didn’t have an elevator, so Juana and Ezequiel carried the suitcases up the stairs to the second floor while Matilde took care of the carry-on luggage. Ezequiel went back to the BMW and returned with a box full of provisions.

  The apartment had two bedrooms at opposite ends of a long hall that also led to the bathroom and a room Enriqueta used as her atelier. It opened onto the living room, kitchen and laundry room. Ezequiel, with the box of provisions in his arms, stopped in the vestibule and whistled.

  “Your aunt must do very well with her paintings, Mat, because I guarantee you this place is worth a fortune.” He put the box on the kitchen table. “Heating won’t be a problem, there are radiators all over the place.”

  “They’re warm,” Juana informed them. “We’ll stay here, Eze. Thanks for bringing us food!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank Jean-Paul. It was his idea.”

  Matilde flopped down on an armchair in the living room and rested her head back, her eyes staring at the flat white ceiling with plaster moldings. She heard Juana singing a song by Marta Sánchez in the kitchen. “Forlorn…our love was an emerald stolen by a thief, oh so very, very forlorn…”

  Ezequiel snuggled up next to Matilde and she rested her head on his chest.

  “She’s always had terrible taste in music.”

  Matilde laughed before admitting, “So do I. I missed you so much, Eze.”

  “I missed you more.” He kissed her on the temple. “I love holding you; it fills me with peace. You always bring me serenity, Mat.”

  Ezequiel Blahetter and Matilde were the same age, had been at school together and loved each other like siblings. With Juana, they had formed a trio that everyone else called “the three musketeers.” Ezequiel didn’t confide in anyone the way he did with Matilde. When he was sixteen, he had revealed his huge secret to her—that he was homosexual—and had cried in her arms because he knew that his grandfather Guillermo was going to disown him.

  “I don’t have much serenity to offer these days. I fought with your brother at Ezeiza. Before I forget, he sent you a letter. I have it in my shika.”

  “I have many reasons to hate my brother. The main ones are what he did to you and that he told my grandfather that I was gay. The old man called me a few weeks ago and called me every ugly name under the sun, starting with pervert.”

  “Roy told me that your grandfather only called him to confirm his suspicions. He forced him to swear on your life that you weren’t gay. Obviously, Roy couldn’t and admitted the truth.”

  “Then it must have been my cousin Guillermo. He does everything he can to cause a rift between us and our grandfather. He wants to run the Blahetter empire.”

  “Let him have it. You’re happy here. You’ve built an impressive career for yourself.”

  When he was eighteen, right after he finished high school, Ezequiel, against his grandfather’s wishes, had gone to Buenos Aires to start work as a model in advertising. When he was twenty-two, he met Jean-Paul Trégart, the head of the most prominent agency in Europe, who showed him the challenges that still lay ahead of him. He had moved to Paris and worked extremely hard to get where he was. Like Celia, or Céline, Ezequiel Blahetter was one of the top five, a member of the elite.

  “Yes, my career is at its zenith, but sometimes I need you and Juana. Do you remember when we went to your country house, Arroyo Seco? And went horseback riding? I miss our time at the Argüello Academy. I miss you, Mat. A lot. I always have.”

  “You’ll be sick of me in a few months.”

  “I’d never get sick of you. Did you go to the doctor before coming?” Matilde nodded. “Is everything okay?” Matilde nodded again. “Thank God.”

  The trip and the time difference were starting to sap Juana’s and Matilde’s energy. Juana wasn’t singing anymore, and Matilde was struggling to keep her eyes open.

  “I’ll let you rest. I’m pretty busy with runway shows and photo shoots over the next few days, but I’ll make time to see you girls. Here are my numbers and my address.”

  He handed them a personal card that read, Ezequiel Blahetter. Mannequin. 29 Avenue Charles Floquet, troisième étage, and listed the phone numbers. Below, her friend had written by hand: Almost at the corner of Avenue du Général Tripier.

  “Anything you need, Mat, anything, you call me. Don’t hesitate, day or night.”

  Ezequiel’s insistence reminded her of the scene on the plane. She sighed.

  “Ciao, baby doll!”

  “Ciao, Eze!” Juana called from the bathroom. “See you soon!”

  “I’ll walk you down,” said Matilde, pulling on her coat.

  They hugged on the sidewalk, and Ezequiel kissed her on the forehead. Neither of them realized that someone was taking pictures of them from a car parked in front.

  “Thank Jean-Paul for sending the supplies.”

  “He wants to meet you. He told me that he’s going to throw a party in your honor.”

  Matilde brought her hands to her chest and blinked.

  “What an honor!”

  “Do you need any cash? I can lend you some until you exchange yours.”

  “We brought some francs with us. Tomorrow’s Friday, so the banks and currency exchanges will be open, won’t they?”

  “Yes, tomorrow is a normal workday.”

  They said good-bye. Ezequiel got into the BMW and read the letter from Roy.

  Brother, Matilde is going to Paris, far away from me. I am entrusting you with her. Take care of her and keep the ferocious wolves at bay. I don’t need to tell you what she means to me. I really fucked it up this time, I know, and I’m sure she told you everything as she always has. But I’m going to get her back. She’s my life. I’m hoping to see you soon because I may be coming to Paris in a few weeks (don’t tell Matilde). A hug, Roy.

  He put the car in gear and drove toward Rue Cujas, which circles the Sorbonne. For a moment, he was blinded by a f
lash in his rearview mirror. He assumed that it was from a tourist photographing the university’s facade.

  Vladimir Chevrikov, who had withstood five years in Lefortovo prison, on the outskirts of Moscow, wasn’t sure that he’d survive his hangover that morning. The sound of his insistently ringing doorbell wasn’t making it any easier.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Medes.”

  He opened the door and Al-Saud’s chauffeur pushed past him to go inside.

  “What the fuck could you possibly want at this hour of the morning on New Year’s Day?”

  “I need you to develop some pictures. The boss needs them right away.”

  Vladimir mumbled curses in Russian before adding, “I’ll make some coffee.”

  Medes walked through the apartment to Chevrikov’s laboratory. As usual, he took a moment to admire the instruments, liquids, dyes and glues, stamps and other materials that Vladimir used to forge all manner of documents. The adjoining room, which was sealed and windowless, with carefully controlled humidity levels, housed printing templates and originals for most existing passports. Medes suspected that some of the printing presses were also used to forge money.

  During the Cold War, Chevrikov was the best forger at the KGB, the Soviet Union’s secret service. Presently, it was said that he was the best forger in the world. He had a special talent for copying and especially for detecting the traps that organizations and institutions planted in documents. He made the paper himself, recreating the composition of the originals after extensive microscopic study. He was feared by governments across the world, because bills forged by Chevrikov were almost impossible to detect.

  Vladimir had ended up in prison after a spurned lover turned him in for selling fake passports to Russian deserters. The KGB had interrogated him until he persuaded them that he was working alone and not for the CIA or SIS, the British intelligence service. Medes knew that Chevrikov limped because he was missing two toes on his right foot due to the torture he had suffered. He also knew that Al-Saud paid him a fortune to work exclusively for him, and that he had made him a partner in Mercure Inc. by giving him a small percentage of the company’s stock. The status of being a stockholder in Al-Saud’s business made him part of a select group in which “the boss” placed his trust.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Vladimir warned, and handed him a cup of coffee.

  “I have to call the boss. I need to use your phone.”

  “Where are you calling him? At the George V?” Medes nodded. “Don’t. It’s a holiday today,” he remarked, “so Peter won’t have come to clean the rooms.”

  Peter Ramsay, an ex-member of the intelligence branch of SIS, known as The Firm, was also part of the boss’s diverse select group. His job was to keep Mercure Inc.’s offices, as well as Al-Saud’s properties, planes and cars and those of all his associates and freelance employees free of microphones and other surveillance equipment. His cunning nature helped him to find planted microphones that others might miss, to take photos from great distances, and to follow people for days without raising suspicion. He had built a close friendship with Alamán Al-Saud, Eliah’s brother, who was an electronics engineer and could provide them the latest technology.

  “The boss told me to call him at the George V. He’ll clean the place himself,” Medes supposed. “What’s the name of your friend, the inspector from thirty-six Quai des Orfèvres?” Medes was alluding to the Direction Régionale de la Police Judiciaire, generally referred to by its address.

  “Inspector Olivier Dussollier, from the Criminal Brigade. What do you want with him?”

  “I need him to run a search on a car. We’ll get the license-plate number once you’ve developed the photos.”

  Al-Saud walked through the main entrance of the George V Hotel and into the lobby. Perhaps if he hadn’t grown up in a sumptuous environment and didn’t see this place almost every day, the grand magnificence of the room would have left him speechless. He strode right through, not paying any attention to the Sèvres vases recently shipped in from China, the marble statues, the sheen of the floor, the moldings on the ceilings, the immense crystal chandeliers, the frescoes on the walls, or the impressive Gobelin tapestry hanging behind the check-in desk. Nor did he notice the attentions of the female concierge, who stared as he passed by determinedly. He was looking at the ground, a hand in his pocket and another pulling his wheeled suitcase, carrying his coat on his arm in spite of the icy morning. She hadn’t seen him for a few days and raised her voice in excitement, an unforgivable act in a hotel of this category.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Al-Saud!” She accompanied the greeting with a wave.

  Eliah smiled and approached the desk.

  “Bonjour, Évanie. Ça va?”

  “Ça va bien, monsieur.” Évanie always said monsieur in the hopes that Al-Saud would suggest she speak to him informally, but this never happened. Polite and courteous, he nonetheless kept his distance. His reserved temperament contrasted with his brother Alamán, who was much more outgoing. Similarly, Eliah was much nicer than the elder Al-Saud, Shariar, who managed the George V and was feared by everyone. Of course, Shariar was more than just a manager. He was also the head of the Kingdom Holding Company, which had bought the venerable but run-down Parisian hotel three years before, restoring it to its former glory with a three-hundred-million-dollar investment.

  Monsieur Eliah Al-Saud rented two suites on the eighth and top floor of the hotel, which functioned as the offices for his business, although the company’s base was in the basement of his house on the Avenue Elisée Reclus. The George V did not see to the cleaning or upkeep of said rooms, and employees were instructed to stay far away from them. One night, a hotel plumber who ventured into one of the bathrooms in Monsieur Eliah’s suite to fix a leak that was flooding the seventh floor ended up with the barrel of a Browning Hi Power at the back of his neck. It had taken some time to convince Anthony Hill, whom everyone knew as Tony, the next largest shareholder in Mercure Inc. after Al-Saud, that the stammering, tearful man was just an ordinary plumber. The next day the locks had been changed and not even the head of maintenance was allowed access to Mercure Inc.’s suites.

  “Bonne année, monsieur.”

  “Bonne année a toi, Évanie. Any messages?”

  “None, sir. Your mother, Madame Francesca, was here yesterday. She came with your brother Monsieur Shariar. She told me that she had just arrived from Jeddah to spend the new year with all of you.”

  “Has Mr. Shiloah Moses arrived?”

  “Not yet. We expect him any moment.”

  “Merci.”

  There was an unusual silence in the rooms on the eighth floor. On a normal working day, telephones were ringing, his secretaries were rushing around sending faxes, making photocopies and preparing folders, meetings were held with clients and his men were coming and going as he summoned and sent them on different missions. He looked at the time. Nine thirty in the morning. His Rolex Submariner now had pleasant connotations and he laughed at the memory. He decided to take a bath. Shiloah Moses wouldn’t arrive until at least ten thirty.

  A little while later, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he went into the living room and looked out one of the windows facing the hotel’s internal garden. As he stood looking at the fountain, he dried his hair roughly to relax his thick scalp. What was Matilde doing right now? The sound of the telephone broke the silence.

  “It’s me, boss. Medes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Vladimir’s house, he’s developing the pictures.”

  “Did you find them?” Medes answered affirmatively. “Finish what you’re doing and come to the George V.”

  He turned to go back into the bathroom, and his gaze strayed to the oil painting hanging over the wood stove: it was a portrait of Jacques Méchin, whom he had loved like a grandfather. His paternal grandfather, the founder of the Saudi kingdom, had died before he was born, and his maternal grandfather wasn’t really related t
o him. Alfredo Visconti, his grandmother Antonina’s husband, had loved Francesca like a daughter and thus her children like grandchildren. Eliah felt great affection for the old Italian and remembered fondly the summers he spent in the Villa Visconti, in Val d’Aosta, in northern Italy. He still enjoyed his company and cultivated conversation, but the man he had really adored was Jacques Méchin. His absence still pained him. Before he died, Jacques had named him heir to his estate, including the house that had belonged to the Méchins for generations, on the exclusive Avenue Elisée Reclus, on the corner of Rue Maréchal Harispe, and a ranch on the outskirts of Rouen, where Eliah raised Holsteiner horses.

  Shiloah Moses showed up at ten thirty, fresh faced and smiling as always. They greeted each other with a hug. Shiloah took a step back, looked at his friend and said, “Mon frère, you’re always looking as fit as a fiddle.” He said it in English, the language they had learned at the bilingual high school where they met.

  Al-Saud, who was now wearing a white V-neck Ralph Lauren T-shirt, dark blue jeans and olive-green Hogan shoes, looked youthful and relaxed.

  “I, on the other hand,” Shiloah said, “look more like my father every day, and not just because I’m losing my hair.” He slapped his belly. “But you look tired. Did you not sleep well?”

  “I didn’t sleep at all,” Eliah confirmed. “Tell me, did they give you room six oh four?” Moses nodded. “Peter Ramsay has already installed the electronic countermeasures so you can speak freely. We can’t guarantee any other sector in the hotel.”

  “For God’s sake, Eliah! We’re in your brother’s hotel.”

  “My brother can’t vouch for every employee he hires or every person who checks in. Even if we did careful background checks, you know the records can be falsified. My dear friend, ever since you decided to dedicate yourself to Israeli politics, and got the idea of a single two-nation state in your head, a lot of people have turned against you, starting with Mossad, which has made the task of watching your back increasingly difficult.”