Obsession

by Florencia Bonelli

  After a long conversation with the ex-vice-president of the Blahetter Group, Roy hung up and Ezequiel demanded to know what was going on. “What the hell are you getting yourself into?”

  “Don’t ask. I want to destroy Guillermo just as much as Testa. And now I know how to do it.”

  “It’s not Guillermo’s fault that you raped Matilde.”

  “Yes, it is his fault! He filled my head with awful ideas, got me drunk, and he did it to destroy me. He was always jealous of me because I was Grandpa’s favorite.” He rested his neck on the pillow and breathed painfully, tired and devastated. “Ezequiel, brother, I need you to help me, please.”

  “You know that I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “I need you to convince Matilde to come see me. It’s imperative. If she doesn’t want to come, tell her to give you the key that I gave her on the night of the party. When are you going to see her?”

  “Tomorrow night. I can’t do it any sooner.”

  “It has to be sooner! It has to be now!”

  “I’m not going now, Roy! It’s too late. For your information, I have a job and engagements that I can’t change. Tomorrow I have to start very early with a photo shoot that’s going to take all day. I’ll go to see her in the evening.”

  A nurse entered and injected a dose of medication into Roy’s saline solution to help him sleep. Ezequiel waited for his brother to fall asleep before he left.

  Ariel Bergman said to himself that the trips to Paris were becoming an annoying though necessary habit. The turn this Eliah Al-Saud business had taken had disturbed the top brass at The Institute. What had started as mild suspicion and moderate state of alert looked like it might become a catastrophe.

  “Were you able to find out if the exchange took place between Bouchiki and that woman in Cairo?” Diuna Kimcha asked.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Bergman admitted. “The kidonim who were observing them from the river didn’t witness an exchange. Salvador Dalí didn’t know how the photographs would be exchanged.”

  “We’re increasing our surveillance of Al-Saud, Hill and Thorton. All three saw our katsas following them. We’re dealing with professionals.”

  “More than professionals. I would say,” Bergman opined. “They’re masters of espionage, assassination and combat reconnaissance. They’re lethal weapons, especially Al-Saud. They’re the best mercenaries on the market. Recent intelligence tells us that they belonged to a secret elite NATO group called L’Agence. They were chosen for their qualifications in their places of origin. For example, Al-Saud was one of the best pilots in the French air force, and speaks several different languages perfectly. Michael Thorton was one of the most skilled SIS spies during the Cold War. They say that he could get in and out of East Germany as if the wall weren’t there. He was a big headache for the Russians. Anthony Hill was a leading member of the SAS. They have several other valuable assets on their payroll, such as Peter Ramsay, who’s also an ex-employee of SIS. He worked for years in the intelligence branch. He’s a genius in his field.”

  Mila Cibin let out an impressed whistle.

  “Where did you get this information? Al-Saud and his partners don’t exist on the system. We checked everywhere.”

  “Al-Saud has an enemy. Nigel Taylor, the head of Spider International, Mercure Inc.’s competition. He gave us the information.”

  “What are the next steps?”

  “We have no alternative except to watch Al-Saud’s every move. Salvador Dalí will alert us and then we’ll act. The order is to capture him and find out everything he knows. Then he’s to be eliminated.”

  On Monday afternoon, Eliah was on the Avenue République, stuck in a huge traffic jam. He stopped at a traffic light and checked his Rolex Submariner. It was already past six thirty in the evening. He muttered a curse and slapped the steering wheel, waiting anxiously for the light to turn from red to green. He accelerated as soon as he saw the green signal, and the squeals of the Aston Martin’s tires were drowned out by the first chords of the song “The Friends of Mr. Cairo.” His heart pounded to the rhythm of the music and his annoyance. He would get to the institute late; Matilde would be waiting for him alone, on the dark and desolate Rue Vitruve. He prayed that Juana was with her, but lately she had been going out with her classmates. At moments like these he couldn’t stand that Matilde didn’t have a cell phone.

  Though the meeting with Shaul Zeevi, the Israeli computer businessman, had gone on longer than expected, he still would have arrived on time at the Lycée des Langues Vivantes if Céline hadn’t had a crying fit over the telephone.

  “Come and get me out of this clinic!” she demanded, hysterical. “I can’t stand it here. C’est terrible!”

  “It’s what’s best for you, Céline,” Eliah tried to reason with her.

  “It’s your fault I’m here. I got crazy when I realized that you had left the party without me, and then Jean-Paul sent me here. You left me, you left,” she sobbed.

  “I had told you that we were only going to spend a few minutes at the party and then we were going to talk. You were too high and drunk to talk. There was no point in me staying.”

  “Liar! You left with Matilde. Oh, what a coincidence it was that she disappeared from the party right when you left!”

  “Céline, I have to go. When you calm down, we’ll talk. And the best thing to help you calm down is to stay in that clinic. You have to detox.”

  Though in the past Céline’s shameless sexuality and free, unbridled soul, the exact opposite of Samara’s shy, nervous personality, had attracted him—or actually bewitched him as though she cast a spell over him—at that moment he felt real contempt for her. What made Matilde different from the other women he had possessed? He knew that Matilde, like none other, had him wrapped around her little finger; strangely, this idea didn’t make him uneasy. Why not? Maybe because he knew what she was like. She hadn’t tried to trap him, she just wanted him to be happy; that’s what she had said to him. There wasn’t a second when I stopped thinking about you, praying to the Virgin for your happiness now and forever. She had no idea what those words had done to him. Why was she different? He asked himself again. In a sudden revelation, he realized that he had had to fight for Matilde when the rest of them, even Samara, had come willingly. She had subtly provoked his hunter and conqueror’s soul, and she was still struggling, because Matilde had not yet surrendered herself completely. Without any evil intent or duplicity, she had ensnared him in a game of desire that sometimes drove him insane. He treasured her; few things had been as difficult for him as gaining Matilde’s trust.

  The Aston Martin turned down Rue Orteaux, and Al-Saud dialed on his cell phone to call Juana’s cell.

  “Hello?”

  “Juana, it’s me.”

  “Hi, stud!”

  “Is Matilde with you?”

  “Yes. We’re waiting for you outside the institute. Are you coming to get us?”

  “I’m a few minutes away. Don’t wait for me on the sidewalk. Go into the institute.”

  “The doorman has already locked the door. We’re the last class.”

  Merde!

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He stepped on the gas and the sports car ate up Rue Orteaux until meeting Rue Vitruve. He turned left illegally and, in the light shining from the door of the Lycée des Langues Vivantes, he immediately saw that three men were circling Juana and Matilde. The blades of their knives glinted in the streetlights. Years of training prevented him from succumbing to panic. He stopped the car on the corner and got out to cross the street to the institute’s sidewalk. He moved stealthily through the shadows that the dim lighting cast down the block. Because he had left the offices at the George V in such a hurry, he had forgotten to take off his Colt M1911, which was still sheathed in its underarm holster. He usually took the precaution of getting rid of the weapon before going to pick up Matilde. And yet, he realized, it wouldn’t be of much use to him. Drawing the Colt c
ould create a shootout, and the victims would be Matilde and Juana.

  As he crept toward them, his body edging along the wall, he assessed the situation. The attackers were three young men, none of them older than twenty-five. They were shouting at the girls in French with heavy Arabic accents that Matilde and Juana wouldn’t be able to understand. There was probably a fourth man waiting for them at the wheel of the Renault Laguna parked in front of the institute, which still had its engine running and doors open.

  Matilde let out a shriek and dropped her notebooks when one of the men grabbed her from behind and put the blade of his knife against her throat. He demanded nervously and in bad French that she give him the key. The sound of Matilde screaming hit Al-Saud as though someone had stabbed him in the chest—his heart skipped a beat. Juana started cursing at them in Spanish and received a slap for her troubles.

  With surprise on his side, getting rid of the first one turned out to be child’s play. He took the boy by the shoulder and as he turned around gave him a sharp punch in the throat. Al-Saud buried his knuckles in the sensitive point below the Adam’s apple, knocking him out in seconds. The boy collapsed, unconscious. Al-Saud took advantage of the shock of the other two to grab Juana by the wrist and wrench her to the sidewalk behind him. He heard the girl’s heels clicking as she ran away to the corner of Rue Orteaux.

  The one who held Matilde shouted out orders in Arabic to his colleague, who was edging forward with his knife pointed at this wannabe hero. Al-Saud saw that the kid knew what he was doing. He held his weapon firmly and maneuvered the steel blade skillfully. He must have been trained in hand-to-hand combat.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eliah saw that the fourth attacker, the one driving the Renault Laguna, was joining his colleagues. He was also brandishing a knife and placed himself behind Al-Saud. He addressed them in Arabic, unnerving them.

  “I’m giving you the opportunity to get out of this with all your bones intact. Give me the girl unharmed and I’ll let you go. Take your unconscious colleague with you.”

  “Come and get her!” the one holding Matilde challenged him, putting his hand around her neck.

  Matilde didn’t take her eyes off Eliah and dug her fingers into the delinquent’s forearms. Although she was struggling not to cry or fall to pieces, a few uncontrollable sobs slipped from between her lips.

  Seeing the boy’s hands touching his woman’s skin, the soft, translucent skin on her neck, where he loved to kiss and smell her, sent Al-Saud mad. When he sensed the attack coming from behind, he reacted almost instantaneously. He kicked backward without turning around, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. The heel of Al-Saud’s boot drove into the attacker’s sternum; the man grunted and fell to his knees. At the same time, Al-Saud parried the knife thrust the third man aimed at his stomach. He bent at the waist to avoid the blade and seized the attacker’s hand by the wrist, then twisted it into an unnatural position behind the boy’s back, pinning him to the ground with his face pressed into the sidewalk. Al-Saud squeezed his tendons and the attacker dropped the knife with a scream of pain. A blow from Eliah’s elbow to the back of the head quieted him; he lay next to his unconscious friend.

  The one holding Matilde was amazed to see his opponent crouch down before leaping to spin through the air with the poise of a dancer to finish off the only other one left standing, the boy who was recovering from the blow in the chest. The flying kick struck him in the neck and left him passed out just a few feet away from the other two.

  Al-Saud fixed an implacable stare on the boy holding Matilde hostage. He was dragging her toward the Renault Laguna.

  “Don’t take another step,” Eliah ordered in Arabic, and drew the Colt M1911. The criminal’s eyes grew wide when he saw the large gun. “Let the girl go.”

  “I’ll slit her throat if you don’t put the weapon down. I’ll do it, here, right in front of you!”

  Matilde saw that Al-Saud was holding the weapon firmly. Though he was a little disheveled—locks of gel-stiffened hair fell like straw over his face—and his suit jacket was a little wrinkled, he seemed composed and calm. She even thought she saw a sinister smile unfurling on his face.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have big ears?” The bullet from the .45-caliber burst through the boy’s ear, and he instinctively let go of Matilde to grab the side of his head. He looked at his blood-soaked hands and then at Al-Saud with an expression somewhere between supplication and terror.

  “The next one goes here,” said Eliah, pointing between his eyebrows.

  As he became aware of the fact that he had lost his ear, the young Arab broke into screams that echoed around Rue Vitruve.

  Al-Saud ran forward to catch Matilde, who was staggering toward him. Matilde put her hands on Eliah’s chest and looked up at him with wide eyes before she turned white and collapsed.

  “Matilde!”

  The criminal got ahold of himself and fled toward the Renault Laguna, trying to hold together what was left of his ear and trailing blood behind him. He crawled into the van on the passenger side and sped off with the doors open. The brakes squealed as he turned right onto Rue Pyrénées. Al-Saud, busy with Matilde, didn’t notice that a car, parked near the corner, turned and followed the Renault.

  The shot had attracted local residents, who were flipping on lights and leaning out over balconies. The doorman from the institute opened the door and stared at the scene on the sidewalk: three guys were lying dead or unconscious on the concrete while a fourth man held a young lady in his arms. She was also out cold, judging by the position of her head, her hair almost hanging down to the sidewalk.

  Juana stopped the Aston Martin and got out to open the passenger door and help Al-Saud put Matilde inside.

  “Get in here,” Eliah indicated, putting the driver’s seat down so Juana could get in the back.

  “Stud…” she sobbed, but Al-Saud wasn’t paying attention. He was focused on removing Matilde’s bag and coat, which were splattered with the Arab’s blood, to look for possible wounds.

  “Did they hit her?” he asked Juana, without pausing his inspection.

  “No, I don’t think so. Let me take her pulse. Her pulse is a little low, but stable. She must have fainted out of fright.”

  Having checked that Matilde had no injuries, he made a call to Chevrikov.

  “Lefortovo, it’s Horse of Fire. It’s an emergency,” he said in Russian. “I need the services of your friend Inspector Olivier Dussollier, from the Criminal Brigade at thirty-six Quai des Orfèvres,” otherwise known as the Direction Régionale de la Police Judiciaire.

  “What do you want with him?”

  “I have three unconscious Arabs at eighteen Rue Vitruve. I want him to take them into custody and interrogate them. They attacked me.”

  “I hope he’s on duty,” came the reply.

  “Tell them to alert the hospitals. One fled and is wounded. I shot him in the ear.”

  “Always a blast with you, eh, Horse of Fire?”

  If there hadn’t been any witnesses to the event, Al-Saud would have ordered his men to remove the three Arabs and take them to the base for interrogation. He got out of the Aston Martin and walked to the door of the institute, where he picked up Matilde’s notebooks. He went back to the car. Juana was on top of her friend. She was alternating between softly slapping her on the cheek and massaging her hands, which were cold.

  “Are you okay, Juana?”

  “Yes, stud. They hit me harder than anyone else has ever dared. I’m going to have a bruise for days. Fucking bastards! Poor little thing…” she lamented. “Mat got the worst part. They were screaming at us in French, but we didn’t understand. I don’t know what they wanted.”

  Al-Saud was switching anxious glances between Matilde and the three bodies sprawled on the sidewalk. A group of onlookers was crowding around them.

  Matilde shook her head against the reclined seat and whimpered without opening her eyes. Al-Saud took her in his arms and drew her to
his chest. He urged her to be quiet and kissed her temple.

  “It’s all over, my love. You’re okay.”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Breathe deep, Mat, to relax your diaphragm. Stud, raise Mat’s seat a bit.”

  Al-Saud did as he was told. Then he turned on the engine and switched on the heat because Matilde was shivering. It was hard to keep away from her, but Juana was right: she needed air. He fanned her with a notebook. As soon as he heard the sirens of the Criminal Brigade, he handed the notebook to Juana and screeched off toward Rue Pyrénées. He would catch up with them later at the Quai des Orfèvres offices.

  When he got to the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus, he took Matilde in his arms and pulled her out of the Aston Martin. Her freezing hands closed around his neck.

  “Eliah,” she whispered weakly.

  “What, my love?”

  “I want to take a bath. I feel dirty.”

  They went in through the kitchen. Leila started to fuss like a broody hen and didn’t calm down until Matilde smiled at her. The girls, Marie and Agneska, put themselves at their boss’s disposal.

  “Marie, run the Jacuzzi in my room. Agneska, tend to Juana. Give her a bedroom.”

  “Stud, Mat showed me your amazing pool the other day. Could I go to swim for a while? I think that would be the best way for me to calm down.”

  “Of course,” he said, and ordered Agneska to show her the way and help her.

  In Al-Saud’s bedroom, Matilde burst into tears like a child when she saw that her butter-colored jacket was ruined by the bloodstains. This opened the floodgates to the anxiety and panic caught in her chest, gushing out in hysterical tears. Leila, cowering in the flower-shaped room, watched her and cried too. Soon the tears were joined by recriminations.

  “You shot him when he was holding me!” Al-Saud struggled to hold her but she wouldn’t stop. “You could have killed me! You could have killed me!”

  How could he explain that he had perfect aim? How to explain that there was no risk in shooting the assailant’s ear? How could he reveal to her that he was an excellent sniper, able to put a bullet between a man’s eyes from five hundred yards? His kept his arms relentlessly around Matilde’s small frame. She shook until, defeated, she pressed her forehead against his heart and cried quietly; the violence of her anger dissipated. Al-Saud chose that moment to whisper into her ear.