Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

  “To send us a message,” Al-Saud concluded. “They want us to know that they know about our investigation. They’re warning us not to move forward.”

  “And who could the traitor be?” Mike asked, still dubious.

  The partners looked at each other. There were a lot of employees at the base; isolating the leak would be a complicated task.

  “It might not just be an infiltrator from Mossad,” said Tony, “but that son of a bitch Nigel Taylor.” The rivalry between Taylor, the head of Spider International, Mercure Inc.’s competition, and Al-Saud had started when they had both been part of L’Agence, and the personal enmity had now transferred to the business world. “Taylor might well have planted a spy at Mercure and then sold the information to Mossad,” Tony continued. “That son of a bitch is capable of that and more to bury us.”

  “Speculation won’t get us anywhere,” Mike declared. “The first thing we have to do is determine whether there is a traitor among us.”

  “Setting a trap,” Tony proposed, “would be the best way to find out.”

  “We’ll fake a meeting,” Al-Saud said, “with a fictitious informant supposed to provide us with information about the El Al flight. We’ll limit the number of Mercure people involved in the mission to the most likely suspects.”

  “Masséna’s at the top of the list,” Tony affirmed. “I never liked that rodent.”

  “I’ll be the one who attends this supposed meeting,” Al-Saud declared.

  They were too tired to arrange the details of the ambush they would set for the suspected traitor.

  “Keep in mind,” Tony reminded them, “that it’s worse to eliminate a good option than to accept a bad one.”

  “In this case, both situations would be disastrous,” Al-Saud noted, “getting rid of a good employee or holding on to a traitor.” He summed up before announcing, “Tomorrow I’m leaving Paris. I want you to call me as soon as Chevrikov has developed Bouchiki’s photographs.”

  * * *

  * * *

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  * * *

  Roy Blahetter was sitting at one of the Soufflot Café’s tables on the sidewalk, almost on the corner of Rue Toullier. There, half-hidden behind a sandwich board with a list of prices, Roy had a perfect view of the entrance to Matilde’s building. He checked the time. Eight forty-five in the morning. It was early. He would sit in that chair all day if he needed to, until he saw her come out. She refused to answer his phone calls, and it had become an impossible mission to get to her at noon, when she was heading out to the institute; the chauffeur who picked her up guarded her as zealously as a rottweiler. At some point Matilde would come out alone and he would intercept her.

  He was distracted by the magnificent blue Aston Martin driving down Rue Soufflot and turning onto Rue Toullier. He saw it stop in front of Matilde’s building. A sense of foreboding made him rise to his feet. The tinted windows prevented him from seeing who was inside. The driver’s door opened and the son of a bitch who had humiliated him at Jean-Paul Trégart’s house the day after the party appeared. He sat back down and hid behind the sign when Al-Saud—Ezequiel had given him his name—took off his sunglasses and studied his surroundings, hanging the sunglasses from the V-neck of his white T-shirt. He even looked up at the roofs, as though looking for something. Still alert, he pressed the button on the electronic buzzer, said a few words and waited next to the door.

  Matilde didn’t take long to show up; she was looking beautiful, with her hair loose, longer, blonder and shinier than ever, wrapped in a butter-colored coat that he didn’t recognize. It suited her very well. He bent his spoon without realizing it as he watched the kiss that his wife and Al-Saud exchanged. He took her backpack and pulled her up on tiptoe, looping his arm around her waist and lifting her to bring her mouth closer. Matilde, grabbing Al-Saud’s neck, returned the kiss with a passion that he never would have believed her capable of, right there in the middle of the street, in plain view. He didn’t recognize her. Al-Saud continued to kiss her—eating her more like, because you couldn’t even see Matilde’s lips anymore—until he pulled away, worked up, perhaps even embarrassed.

  After seeing this kiss, Blahetter had to admit that there was a grain of truth in Al-Saud’s words; Matilde did seem to freely offer what she had denied him. If I didn’t know he was armed, Roy told himself, I would go over and beat him to a pulp. Matilde and Al-Saud got into the Aston Martin and headed off toward Rue Cujas.

  He didn’t have time to get disheartened. He felt a light pressure near his right kidney. He turned in his seat and found himself inches away from the face of Orville Wright’s chauffeur.

  “Good morning, Dr. Blahetter. I’m pointing a .45-caliber pistol at you. Don’t make me use it. Stand up and walk with me to that van.” He motioned with his chin to signal a vehicle parked on the corner of Rue Soufflot. “I imagine you know how to drive.” Blahetter nodded imperceptibly. “Here are the keys.”

  As they got farther away from Paris, heading northeast on Autoroute A13, the sky turned gray. Matilde barely paid any attention to the scenery, which was largely rural, because she was so absorbed by what Eliah was telling her about Jacques Méchin, whom he had loved like a grandfather and from whom he had inherited the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus and the estate in Rouen. Although Al-Saud was talking a lot, she noticed that he seemed tense; he was constantly checking the rearview mirror. If a car came anywhere near the back of theirs, Al-Saud would step on the gas to put distance between them. Matilde peeked over and saw the needle climb past 125 miles per hour. It was strange, but she didn’t feel afraid; she felt safe with him.

  The conversation about Méchin led to Eliah’s real grandfather, Abdul Aziz Al-Saud, a friend of Méchin and founder of the kingdom of Saudi Arabia. His life sounded like something straight out of a novel. Eliah also told her about Islamic politics in Kamal’s country.

  “My father’s family belongs to a Sunni sect called the Wahabis. Mohamed ibn Abd-al-Wahab founded it, hence the name. It is the strictest of the Islamic sects; even dancing and singing are forbidden.”

  “It’s strange that you were named after a Jewish prophet, given that you’re the son of a Wahabi prince,” Matilde commented.

  “My mother loved the name, she wanted it for me, and my father, who always wants to please her in everything, gave in. My grandmother Fadila never forgave him. In fact, she always called me by my middle name, Aymán. It means ‘fortunate.’”

  “Aymán,” Matilde repeated. “What a lovely name. With a lovely meaning.”

  “And you? Why did they name you Matilde?”

  “Because I was born on the fourteenth of March, the day of Saint Matilde. The name is German and means ‘strength’ or ‘army.’ Nothing could be less appropriate for me, could it? I’ve always been so short and slight.”

  Al-Saud turned his head and looked at her enigmatically.

  “Maybe it refers to one’s temperament,” he reasoned. “I’m sure that you have the strength of an army when you’re upset by something.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the car, filled only by “Alfa,” a track by Vangelis. Matilde knew that Al-Saud was referring to the night when she kicked him out of Rue Toullier. They hadn’t mentioned it again, and her trip to the Congo hung over them like the sword of Damocles. A few minutes later, Matilde dared to speak.

  “Your father is very much in love with your mother, isn’t he?”

  “My old man renounced the kingdom of Saudi Arabia for my mother.”

  “Your father was going to be the king of Saudi Arabia?” Eliah nodded. “That’s unbelievable.”

  “He wouldn’t have been able to marry my mother if he had ascended to the throne. To the Saudis, she’s an infidel. Why do you say that?”

  “I got the impression that your parents love each other in a special way the night that I met him, at Sofía’s house. They looked at each other in a way that…it moved me.”

  Al-Saud got off the hi
ghway and took another narrower, more remote road flanked by a dense forest. After a few minutes, he turned right onto a dirt road shaded by foliage, which ended in front of an ancient iron gate topped by a metal sign that read, Haras Al-Saud. Élevage de Chevaux Frisons. He pointed a small device at the gate, which swung open to let them through.

  “Read me the sign, Eliah.” He did so. “What does it mean?”

  “Al-Saud Stables. Friesian Horse Breeder.”

  “What are Friesian horses?”

  “Les plus beaux chevaux au monde, mon amour.”

  The main house stood in the midst of well-tended gardens, surrounded by older, smaller houses that nonetheless looked well cared for and solidly built. Al-Saud informed her that the estate manager, Takumi Kaito, lived in one of them, and the rest were distributed between two veterinarians and the rest of the employees. The place was a hive of activity, which stopped for a moment when the Aston Martin appeared. Al-Saud parked on a gravel path that led to the stairs at the entrance of the large house. Standing next to the set of double doors were the manager—Matilde didn’t have any trouble identifying him given his marked Japanese features—and a chubby woman wearing a head scarf, a flowery apron and a smile that immediately put Matilde at ease.

  Takumi Kaito watched Eliah as he took out the luggage and exchanged words with the woman accompanying him. Although Kaito’s expression remained impassive, the sudden appearance of the man he thought of as a son had triggered a flood of emotion. He would never forget how their relationship had started, when Eliah was thirteen, possessed of a brilliant mind and a hungry, restless and misunderstood spirit. Prince Kamal had hired him to be a personal bodyguard to his third son, a position he would share with another professional, a Romanian ex-member of the Foreign Legion. After assessing him humbly, but openly and thoroughly, Eliah asked to speak to his father in private, and, although they closed the door to the adjoining room, Takumi could hear their exchange. “I could knock down that Japanese man with my little finger, Papa.” “You wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on him, you’d be grasping at thin air,” was the Saudi prince’s answer. “I’m sorry that you have such poor judgment as to let yourself be swayed by appearances. It’s true that Mr. Kaito is short and has a small build, but that man is the grandson of one of the last samurais and is an expert in various martial arts. I’ve seen him knock down men of my size in two or three moves.”

  For months, his protégé had kept his distance; in fact, Eliah was reserved and cool with most people, except his mother, Madame Francesca, and his sister, Yasmín. Kaito, however, realized that with him it wasn’t just circumspection but that the boy mistrusted him. In addition, he knew that for his protégé, a Horse of Fire, hindrances to his freedom bothered him like nothing else, and the presence of a bodyguard was just such a hindrance.

  One Saturday morning in May, 1981, Madame Francesca asked him to prepare one of the cars; she and her two younger children, Eliah and Yasmín, were going shopping. They had barely turned onto Rue Saint-Honoré when two vehicles penned them in, one from behind and one in front, and Takumi Kaito had no choice but to brake. Four men, armed with MP5 machine guns, their faces made grotesque by the stockings over their heads, surrounded the Al-Sauds’ car and screamed at them in poor French to get out, pounding on the roof as they did so. Little Yasmín, clutching Madame Francesca’s waist, held her back from following the kidnappers’ orders. Young Eliah had stayed still in his seat, his green eyes following the figure who seemed to be the leader. The kidnappers started to lose patience. The operation, in broad daylight on a busy street, shouldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, less than a minute. One yanked Kaito out of the driver’s seat and threw him onto the asphalt, while the boss tried to detach the girl from the mother’s waist. The scene was a blur of screaming and crying. Yasmín, in a fit of hysteria, turned on the man and, trying to scratch his face, tore open the stocking to reveal the face of the criminal. Eliah, who had studied German since he was very small, understood the curses of the attacker. He watched him in a kind of fascination and stupor, staring at his peculiar features.

  Takumi Kaito took advantage of the moment of confusion to shake off the men pinning him down. The groans from the kidnappers diverted Eliah’s attention toward the Japanese man. His bladelike arms moved almost faster than the eye could see, they were barely flashes of color in the air. Kaito took out the third, and the crunch of his shoulder breaking made Eliah feel sick. The gang’s boss, exposed and disoriented without his stocking, tried to empty the cartridge of his MP5 into the body of the Japanese man. It was difficult to understand how the man had ended up with the barrel of the machine gun in his abdomen. Winded, he sprinted toward one of the vehicles and, with the doors swinging open, burned the tire rubber as he fled down the boulevard.

  Eliah found himself smothered by his mother and sister, who were crying, shaking and whimpering, one in Spanish, the other in French. Kaito put the car in gear and returned to the mansion on Avenue Foch. To Eliah, the following days passed in a blur. He didn’t go to school, he wasn’t allowed to go outside, even to see his friends. The parade of police, inspectors, politicians, ambassadors and other functionaries never ended. In the midst of the tumult stirred up by the attack, nobody noticed Eliah’s behavior; he was retreating into himself and becoming more withdrawn with every passing day. Takumi Kaito observed him.

  One day he found the boy in the attic, crying. He respected the teenager’s attempt to hide his moment of weakness. His failure to act in the face of danger had humiliated him; it continued to humiliate him every time the police or the agents from the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire interrogated him, although Takumi saw that he nonetheless faced up to them without flinching.

  “This place,” Kaito said, “would make a magnificent dojo.”

  “What’s a dojo?” asked the young Al-Saud, blushing because his voice was cracked.

  “It’s a type of gymnasium where martial arts are taught.” Kaito studied the attic and evaluated the state it was in. “Yes, this would undoubtedly be a good dojo. Would you like to learn how to fight the way you saw me fight when they tried to kidnap you?” He brought up the day on purpose, without hesitating. “I think you have the talent for combat.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve seen you playing sports at school. You move gracefully, you’re in harmony with your body. You feel comfortable in it.”

  His words were incomprehensible. Eliah didn’t know what the Japanese man was talking about, as if he and his body could be two separate entities.

  “I don’t share my knowledge with just anyone, Eliah.”

  The young Al-Saud looked up and stared at his bodyguard. It was the first time he had ever called him by his name.

  “My knowledge can help you to kill a man without any effort. But it’s not about that. You have the balance and control required to determine the right time to turn your body into a lethal weapon. If I teach you, Eliah, no one will ever be able to hurt you.”

  “I didn’t know what to do when those men wanted to take my mother and sister. I acted like a coward.”

  “A Horse of Fire, a coward? The Horse of Fire doesn’t know fear. It’s not a question of virtue. He’s simply born without that feeling. Were you really scared on the day of the kidnapping? I doubt it. Nobody is as calm as a Horse of Fire in the face of tragedy. Sometimes it can make them seem inhuman.”

  “What are you talking about?” Eliah asked.

  “I’m talking about you. You were born on February seventh, 1967, which means that you’re a Horse of Fire in the Chinese zodiac.” Al-Saud’s amused smile didn’t offend Kaito. “You didn’t believe in me either when your father hired me. You said that you could knock me down with your little finger, isn’t that right?” Eliah’s beardless cheeks turned red again. “So I advise you not to doubt me when I tell you that your spirit is a Horse of Fire.”

  “Okay.” He gave in after a pause. “I do want you to teach me to fi
ght like you did that day.”

  “I will, Eliah, but I won’t just be teaching you to fight, but also to respect everything around you, from the smallest to the largest creature. Because every element is part of a whole, nothing is here by chance. I won’t just be your trainer, I’ll become your master. That’s why you’ll call me Master Takumi. You’ll call me Takumi sensei. Say it.”

  “Takumi sensei.”

  “Takumi sensei,” Al-Saud said and bowed. Then they fell into a hug. “Bonjour, Laurette,” he said, greeting the woman.

  Matilde thought that the woman was going to burst into tears. She excitedly wrapped Al-Saud in her tubby arms and let out a stream of words that were indecipherable to her; the Haute-Normandie accent was even more difficult to understand than the Parisian one. Although Al-Saud allowed her to hug him, Matilde sensed that these displays of affection made him uncomfortable.

  “Sensei, Laurette, this is Matilde, my woman.”

  Laurette uttered a little squeal of delight, hugged Matilde and spoke quickly and at length. Matilde, blushing and surprised at how Al-Saud had introduced her, felt ridiculous as she bent down automatically in front of the Japanese man. They went into the house. Laurette continued to prattle on to Matilde. Al-Saud tried to translate, but it didn’t matter how many times he explained that Matilde’s French was limited, the woman kept up her endless, incomprehensible flow. Eventually Kaito said something to her quietly but energetically in Japanese, and Laurette fell silent, still smiling.

  The house was built from wood and white stone. They crossed the hall and went down three large steps to enter a huge room. Matilde immediately fell victim to the charm of the place: the hearth with two logs already crackling on an open fire, a large love seat and several more individual brown leather armchairs, cushions scattered all around and an enormous carpet on the parquet floor. Next to the window that looked out onto the back garden, there was a long oak table with a fruit bowl filled with apples, oranges and bananas.