“Exactly as we agreed,” Ian said without slowing.
“Short and sweet,” Ian said when they had come back into the rue Salah Eddine el-Ayoubi. “It’s better that way.”
“I think so,” Philip said.
“No one can claim there was a misunderstanding. The participants know both what’s expected of them and when to expect their own reward. The truly beautiful part with this cast of characters and three separate pieces of merchandise is that, as you once suggested and I’ve long believed, we should be able to create our own private standoff in the region, paradoxically making conflict amongst the various parties less likely than it already is.”
Philip smiled. “While reaping tens of billions doing so,” he added.
Ian laughed. “Yes, there is that.”
Ian’s disinclination to accept the reality and consequences of his actions and his need to justify them on elaborate theoretical grounds alternately amused and perplexed Philip, whose approach to life had always been to face it directly. Like so many men, Ian could not bear to conceive of himself as acting other than out of some essentially good motive toward some essentially good end. But how could such a canny operator go to such lengths to blinker himself from the truth? Philip had no illusions about the transaction they were concluding or the people with whom they were dealing. The al-Awads and Al-Dosaris of this world were syndicators, go-betweens. Behind them lay a constantly changing cast of shifty principals, dictators and desert princes wielding absolute power, usurpers and warlords, drug lords, nihilistic fanatics and terrorists. So what? That was neither of Philip’s making nor his responsibility. He lived in the world he found and planned on neither heaven nor hell. If anything, beyond the fortune he would reap, absolved him of a last vestige of guilt, it was his conviction that the time had come for the cat to be let out of the bag. Where it would scramble was not for him to say. All he could do at this unstoppable historical moment was to seize it and profit from the weapons he now controlled, as other men would surely soon profit from the sale of other weapons to other dubious and dangerous parties. And he had to keep his ear to the ground, to stay a step ahead of trouble and as far away as possible from any theater in which such weapons seemed likely to be exploded. Life was replete with dangers. What were nuclear warheads but one more on a very long list?
“Let’s walk, shall we?” Ian suggested. “It feels rather good to stretch one’s legs when one’s been at sea. Have a word with our driver, would you? Tell him to meet us at the Petit Socco in . . . what do you think? Half an hour?”
“He’ll know where that is?”
“He’ll know, all right.”
The street was sun-drenched, with an eclectic crowd already gathering by Popeye’s Restaurant. At the next major intersection they turned right, past the City Wall into the medina on the rue Siaghine. Here in the souk, the doors and shutters of almost all the shop fronts had been opened, and vendors selling local melons, apples, bananas and dates worked adjacent to those in whose chaotic premises fresh chickens hung from clothesline while live roosters patrolled a sawdust floor below. Still other shops offered various Moroccan arts and crafts; desert clothing such as white dishdashahs and hijabs, pashmina scarves in vivid hues and of complicated design and caftans sewn with elaborate beadwork. Every few yards another emporium offered an array of last season’s electronic gadgetry. Ian and Philip climbed the hill in silence until, displayed on a shop’s front table, an intricate pyramid of wooden boxes caught Philip’s eye.
“Do you mind?” he asked Ian.
“What is it with you and boxes?”
Philip sighed. “It isn’t me and boxes. Isabella loves them.”
“I know she does, but must she have one from everywhere.”
“I won’t be long. I’ll catch you up.”
These particular boxes featured parquetry inlays in the repeated geometric patterns typical of much Islamic art. Tiny squares of blond and darker woods, inscribed by contrasting circles, had been fancifully arranged to produce an illusion of depth and movement in their handsome lids. Philip understood that each square represented the four elements of nature—earth, water, fire and air—and that each circle represented the physical world that those elements made possible. He had long appreciated the mathematics of such art, and as he studied several such boxes now, he tried to locate the imperfection in their patterns that their creators would have deliberately introduced as an expression of their own humility and faith that only Allah could achieve perfection.
The shop was narrow, deep and dark. A merchant soon came forth, a man of perhaps forty with sun-cured skin and an angular smile that revealed a missing bicuspid. For several seconds, he watched Philip. Finally, in a hoarse voice, he proclaimed, “They are beautiful.”
“Yes,” Philip said. “They are very nice.”
“This one has a secret compartment,” the merchant said. “Turn this knob once, nothing happens, but twice, voilà!”
Philip smiled. “How much?” he asked.
“For this, fifty euros.”
“For the simpler one? I don’t require a secret compartment. Besides, the simpler one is more elegant.”
“It is,” the merchant said. “For the one you prefer, thirty-five euros.”
“Rubbish,” Philip said. It was not his nature to bargain, but he knew he would sacrifice the Arab’s respect if he did not. “I’ll give you half that, no more, but for the first one.”
“You have come a long way,” the merchant said. “Where from? Germany?”
“Spain,” Philip replied.
“Take that one with you, back to Spain, for forty, I beg you.”
“Twenty-five,” Philip countered.
The merchant shook his head.
“Twenty-five,” Philip repeated.
Toward the rear of the shop, a boy of twelve or so made careful note of Philip’s insolence. Already a skilled bargainer himself, he understood that it was a game decent people played with a smile rather than as a matter of life and death.
“Twenty-five is not enough,” the merchant said.
“Twenty-five is my final offer.”
The merchant shook his head.
“Twenty-five or I am gone and the box will still be yours.”
“Please!” the merchant said. “I have a shop to run, a son to bring up.”
“None of that is my concern,” Philip said coolly, scanning the room, taking only the briefest notice of a boy clutching a balsa-wood ukulele. “I don’t bother you with my concerns. Don’t bother me with yours.”
“It’s not right,” the merchant said.
“Here is twenty-five,” Philip said, producing two crisp notes. “Take it or leave it.”
The merchant hesitated. He had been prepared to accept thirty-five, and in a better year would not have accepted less. It would hurt to be humiliated before his son, but that would be on the European’s conscience, not his own. He needed the twenty-five euros. Reflexively, he fetched a sheet of printed tissue paper from below the counter and began to wrap Philip’s purchase. It took him less than a minute to complete the familiar task, write out a receipt, then place both in a green plastic carrier bag.
Philip had to work quickly. The explosive he intended to use was a binary one that Andrej had purchased for him on the black market in Sevastopol. It would require half an hour from the addition of the sensitizer for the white solid and red liquid to set. He’d had no opportunity to do a proper reconnaissance of the area but wasn’t worried. Acting quickly meant that potential witnesses were less likely to recall, in meaningful detail, someone they had seen only once and fleetingly.
A third of the way to the Grand Socco, a shadowy passageway of lesser shops and stalls flowed south from the rue Siaghine. One of dozens of such tributaries, its opening was marked by a sign whose vertical orange letters, faded by years of
exposure and neglect, read HOTEL BELGIQUE. Philip turned into it. Soon a rivulet of melting ice washed over the soles of his loafers and he realized that by happenstance he had come in at the rear of a large poissonnerie. To his left, row after row of ice-covered tables were laden with the catch of local fishermen: mullet, mackerel and sea bass, salt cod and Saint-Pierre, langostinos, squid and shrimps. Crabs squirmed in wooden baskets. Lobsters struggled to swim in large barrels. In the distance, beyond a ribbon of daylight at the far end of the market, stood what he assumed to be either the Grand or the Petit Socco. To Philip’s surprise, the fishmongers paid him no attention as they went about their business, folding fish in old newspapers or placing them in the ready buckets of their customers. Then a door opened and from it a single weather-beaten seaman emerged. Surmising that the raised, scuffed H on the door stood for Hommes, Philip entered the small lavatory, then immediately locked it from within. Overhead, a solitary incandescent bulb threw down ample light for his work. When the explosive had been created and attached to a tiny mobile-phone-activated detonator, he carefully rubber-taped both to the bottom of the secret drawer of his new box, making sure they would be held in place there. Then he snapped the drawer closed and slid the box back into its tissue wrapper, resealing the expertly folded end from which he had withdrawn it.
As he had expected, he found Ian at an outdoor table in front of a café in the square. Even in the midst of urgent business, Ian could seldom resist such places and the chances they afforded to observe people without being closely observed in turn.
“Un citron pressé?” Ian asked, beckoning Philip to a chair.
“Pourquoi pas?” Philip replied, and, flagging a waiter, ordered the lemonade. “You look very relaxed.”
Ian smiled. “The moment calls for it.”
“I understand,” said Philip.
“At a moment like this, in a deal like this one, one wants to relax, to put oneself in fifth gear rather than first. Otherwise it may be difficult to deal with uncertainty should it arise.”
Philip nodded. They talked again about Tangier as Ian had first known it, about its successive histories as a Berber, a Roman, a Christian and, since A.D. 702, a Muslim city; about everything but the subject on both of their minds. Between Ian’s paragraphs, silence occasionally fell, and when it did, Philip wondered what he was thinking.
Philip was glad for the delay, which played into his hands, and for a few minutes found his thoughts adrift.
When his iPhone rang, it appeared to startle him. He looked at the screen, then at Ian. “Fateen,” he explained quietly.
“I wonder why,” Ian replied.
“Hello,” Philip said, then pretended to listen for a moment. “Is there a particular reason, may I ask?”
To Ian, Philip quickly mouthed the words, He wants to meet.
“But everything’s all right, then?” Philip asked. “Good, I’m glad. Where are you? We’ll stop by on our way back to the tender.”
Philip hesitated. “No, we’ll be gone long before lunch.”
Ian nodded.
“Just a moment, I’ll ask,” Philip said, muting the telephone.
“Fateen wants me to have lunch with him. He assures me there is no problem. I think he wants his hand held.”
“Many people are like that,” Ian said. “I would not have expected Fateen to be one of them, but pressure does strange things to people. Go, steady his nerves. You can call for the tender when you’re ready.”
“I’m sure you would be more than welcome.”
“Not in a million years. When a deal is in play, it’s in play. Agree to nothing we have not already agreed to.”
“That,” Philip said, “goes without saying.” With the iPhone once again switched on, he said, “One o’clock. I’ll find it, don’t worry. I’ll meet you there.”
On the drive back to the yacht-club quay, Ian seemed resigned. “Just be careful,” he told Philip as he prepared to step out of the car.
“I’m sure it amounts to little more than that he simply doesn’t like to eat alone,” Philip suggested with a piteous laugh. “I could almost tell that from his voice.”
“Good,” Ian said.
“You could do me one favor,” Philip said, seemingly on impulse. “If you wouldn’t mind taking this box with you? Then I won’t have to worry about leaving it behind in a restaurant.”
“Pleasure,” Ian said. “Where is he taking you, by the way? The Minzah?”
“No. Someplace called the Tom Yam.”
“That’s too bad,” Ian said. “The Minzah’s very salubrious. I’m afraid I don’t know Tom Yam.”
“Number five avenue Youssoufia,” Philip said as offhandedly as he could manage, for the depth of Ian’s curiosity had unnerved him. “The best Thai food in Tangier, he said.”
“Well, that’s the world today, isn’t it? I’m sure there’s wonderful couscous in Bangkok.”
As Surpass’s tender motored slowly toward the breakwater gulls circled overhead. Philip glanced at his watch. It was 11:59. He quickly found Fateen Al-Dosari’s mobile number in his iPhone’s address book and rang it. When Fateen answered, Philip said, “Any chance you’re free for lunch?”
“This is a surprise,” Fateen told him.
“Ian asked me to stay behind to do a business errand for him. Nothing very important,” Philip explained, “but you know Ian. When he gets something on his mind, no matter how small, there’s no getting it off, is there?”
“All too true. Still, I admire a man who clears his in-box every day,” Fateen replied. “As a matter of fact, I am free for lunch.”
“How would the Tom Yam at one o’clock suit?”
“Perfectly,” Fateen replied.
Relieved that their conversation had not been interrupted by a query directly from Ian to Fateen, Philip drew a momentary breath. He would not have put such a call beyond Ian in normal circumstances. For it was Ian’s nature to either confirm or erase his suspicions. So Philip had erred on the safe side. His alibi was intact.
On sudden impulse Philip instructed his driver to take him to the Hotel El Minzah. Once there, he would walk in the fabled hotel’s gardens, perhaps have a drink, then go on to the restaurant. As the Mercedes crossed the railway track that ran along the shore, Philip reached into his jacket pocket and switched off his iPhone. It was important he be incommunicado. From the opposite pocket, he removed a small pay-as-you-go Nokia he’d bought the previous December with a false ID. Careful to hold it low and forward on his lap, thus out of the driver’s view, with obsessive care he punched in, then confirmed on the telephone’s screen the number of the detonator in the box he had left with Ian. On the near side of the place de la Tannerie, once he judged that they were finally far enough away from the waterfront not to hear an explosion at sea, he pressed the green CALL button. With the phone now on speaker, he waited out six unanswered rings. Then, displaying only normal frustration, he pressed the red STOP key and immediately wiped the call from the telephone’s logs.
At the Hotel El Minzah, having time to spare, he told the driver to meet him exactly where he had before, in the Petit Socco. In the meantime he would walk, both because his body craved the exercise and because it was easier to get to know a city on foot. In the Minzah’s lush garden, the sun felt warm against his face. As he paused before a stand of cedar and bay trees, his thoughts suddenly wafted back to school holidays on which his father had sometimes taken him when he was a boy. In those days, immediately following his post at the United Nations, his father had been based in London as a partner of a travel agency that specialized in high-end excursions, often through the byways of more libertine cultures. He had received large discounts, sometimes even complimentary rooms at luxurious hotels on every coast of the Mediterranean, and it had been on their holidays together that Philip had first tasted the seductive North Af
rican climate in which desert and sea air merged. How long ago that was, Philip thought now! His father had been shot, accidentally, on safari in Kenya when Philip was just shy of fourteen. He could not help but wonder if the seed of a man who could kill with such impressive ease had been within him from birth or planted later in the course of his life. At Le Rosey, like many of his schoolmates, he had become accustomed to a measure of parental neglect, to being loved from a distance, but this had left him not so much desperate as on his own. In those days, although he had charged exuberantly onto playing fields and ski slopes and shown a precocious flair for mathematics, he had been invariably more careful than the children of rich and powerful men who surrounded him, many of whom had seemed to float above the world, buoyed by a charm so instinctive they could neither recognize nor repress it. Unlike Luke Claussen, Philip had recognized even then that he was bound for a different, more serious fate. Thoughts of murder had not yet surfaced as he studied beside the shores of Lake Leman, fifty kilometers north of Geneva, and on the school’s alpine winter campus in Gstaad.
No, he reflected, he had developed the capacity if not the instinct to kill incrementally. It was the logical extension of the first lesson he’d imbibed from Ian. Nothing mattered more than success, and success was achieved by capitalizing upon every moment, every person and every opportunity. Over his years in the City of London, under his mentor’s tutelage, step by step he had abandoned whatever morality he’d once had—first, innocently enough, by canceling obligations to friends in favor of clients; then by assisting raiders and their hedge-fund backers as they stripped bare the assets of firms that had required decades to build and saddled the resulting corporate skeletons with plainly unsustainable levels of debt; by profiting, always surreptitiously, from confidential information that should not have been acted upon; eventually by early-stage algo trading against his own customers, excusing his actions as if the very nature of markets required it. It had been a short enough journey from destroying a person’s livelihood to destroying his life. He was not bloodthirsty, merely pragmatic. Philip did not enjoy killing any more than he recoiled from it and, with a certain wistfulness, appreciated the irony of his having just had to eliminate the very man who had set him on his way.
Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) Page 28
