by Daniel Silva
“I’m so glad you could join us this evening.” She spoke to him in English and in the confiding tone of a hostess who had thrown a small dinner party. “I hope you’re enjoying the music. Aren’t they wonderful? I’m Mimi, by the way.”
And with that she was gone. Gabriel turned his gaze toward the stage, but in his mind he was back in Natan Hofi’s underground lair, listening to the recordings of the mysterious woman with a friend named Tony.
I’m Mimi, by the way.
No, you’re not, thought Gabriel. You’re Madeleine. And Alexandra. And Lunetta. You’re the Little Moon.
Next morning Mr. Katubi was standing at his post in the lobby when the telephone purred. He glanced at the caller ID and exhaled heavily. Then he lifted the receiver slowly, a sapper defusing a bomb, and brought it to his ear.
“Good morning, Herr Klemp.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Katubi.”
“Do you require assistance with your bags?”
“No assistance required, Katubi. Change in plans. I’ve decided to extend my stay. I’m enchanted by this place.”
“How fortunate for us,” Mr. Katubi said icily. “For how many additional nights will you require your room?”
“To be determined, Katubi. Stay tuned for further updates.”
“Staying tuned, Herr Klemp.”
14
CAIRO
“I never signed up for anything like this,” Quinnell said gloomily. It was after midnight; they were in Quinnell’s tired little Fiat. Across the Nile, central Cairo stirred restlessly, but Zamalek at that hour was quiet. It had taken two hours to get there. Gabriel was certain no one had followed them.
“You’re sure about the flat number?”
“I’ve been inside,” Quinnell said. “Not in the capacity I’d hoped, mind you, just one of Mimi’s parties. She lives in flat 6A. Everyone knows Mimi’s address.”
“You’re sure she doesn’t have a dog?”
“Just an angora cat with a weight problem. I’m sure a man who claims to be a friend of the great Herr Heller will have no problem dealing with an obese cat. I, on the other hand, have to contend with the seven-foot Nubian doorman. How did that happen?”
“You’re one of the world’s finest journalists, Quinnell. Surely you can deceive a doorman.”
“True, but this isn’t exactly journalism.”
“Think of it as an English schoolboy prank. Tell him the car’s died. Tell him you need help. Give him money. Five minutes, and not a minute longer. Understood?”
Quinnell nodded.
“And if your friend from the Mukhabarat shows up?” Gabriel asked. “What’s the signal?”
“Two short horn blasts, followed by a long one.”
Gabriel climbed out of the car, crossed the street, and descended a flight of stone steps leading to a quay along the waterfront. He paused for a moment to watch the graceful, angular sail of a felucca gliding slowly upriver. Then he turned and walked south, Herr Klemp’s smart leather satchel hanging from his right shoulder. After a few paces the upper floors of Mimi’s apartment house came into view above the rise-an old Zamalek building, whitewashed, with large terraces overlooking the river.
A hundred yards beyond the building another flight of steps rose toward the street. Gabriel, before mounting them, looked down the river to see if he had been followed but found the quay deserted. He climbed the steps and crossed the street, then made his way to the entrance of a darkened alleyway that ran along the back of the apartment houses. Had it been his first time there, he might not have found his destination, but he had walked the alley in daylight and knew with certainty that one hundred and thirty normal paces would bring him to the service entrance of Mimi Ferrere’s building.
Painted on the dented metal door, in Arabic script, were the words DO NOT ENTER. Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. The walk from the car, as expected, had taken four minutes and thirty seconds. He tried the latch and found that it was locked, as it had been earlier that day. He removed the pair of thin metal tools from the side pocket of the satchel and crouched so that the latch was at eye level. Within fifteen seconds the lock had surrendered.
He eased open the door and looked inside. A short, cement-floored corridor stretched before him. At the other end was a half-open door, which gave onto the lobby. Gabriel stole forward and concealed himself behind the second door. From the other side he could hear the voice of David Quinnell, offering the Nubian doorman twenty pounds to push his disabled car from the street. When the conversation fell silent, Gabriel peered around the edge of the door, just in time to see the robes of the Nubian flowing into the darkness.
He entered the lobby and paused at the mailboxes. The box for apartment 6A bore the label: M. FERRERE. He mounted the staircase and climbed up to the sixth floor. The door was flanked by a pair of potted palms. Gabriel pressed his ear to the wood and heard no sound from within. From his pocket he removed a device disguised as an electric razor and ran it around the edge of the door. A small light glowed green, which meant the device had detected no evidence of an electronic security system.
Gabriel slipped the apparatus back into his pocket and inserted his old-fashioned lockpick into the keyhole. Just as he began to work, he heard female voices filtering up the stairwell from below. He proceeded calmly, his fingertips registering subtle changes in tension and torque, while another part of his mind turned over the possibilities. The building had eleven floors. The chances were slightly better than even that the women on the stairs were heading for the sixth floor or higher. He had two options: abandon his work for the moment and head down the stairs toward the lobby, or seek refuge on an upper floor. Both plans had potential pitfalls. The women might find the presence of a strange foreigner in the building suspicious, and if they happened to live on the top floor, he might find himself trapped with no route of escape.
He decided to keep working. He thought of the drills he’d done at the Academy, of Shamron standing over his shoulder, exhorting him to work as though his life and the lives of his team depended on it. He could hear the clatter of their high heels now, and when one of the women squealed with laughter his heart gave a sideways lurch.
When finally the last pin gave way, Gabriel put his hand on the latch and felt the gratifying sensation of movement. He pushed open the door and slipped inside, then closed it again just as the women were reaching the landing. He leaned his back against the door and, with only his lockpick as a weapon, held his breath as they passed in laughter. For an instant he hated them for their frivolity.
He locked the door. From the satchel he removed a cigar-sized Maglite and shone the narrow beam about the flat. He was standing in a small entrance hall, beyond which was the sitting room. Cool and white, with low comfortable furniture and an abundance of colorful pillows and throws, it reminded Gabriel vaguely of Mimi’s nightclub. He moved slowly forward but stopped suddenly when the light fell upon a pair of neon-yellow eyes. Mimi’s fat cat lay curled atop an ottoman. It looked at Gabriel without interest, then rested its chin on its paws and closed its eyes.
He had a list of targets, organized in order of importance. Highest in priority were Mimi’s telephones. He found the first in the sitting room, resting atop an end table. The second he located on the nightstand in the bedroom; the third in the room she used as an office. To each he attached a miniature device known in the lexicon of the Office as a glass, a transmitter that would provide coverage of both the telephone and the room around it. With a range of roughly a thousand yards it would permit Gabriel to use his suite at the Intercontinental as a listening post.
In the office he also found the second item on his target list, Mimi’s computer. He sat down, powered on the computer, and inserted a compact disk into the drive. The software engaged automatically and began collecting the data stored on the hard drive: mailboxes, documents, photographs, even audio and video files.
While the files downloaded, Gabriel had a look round the rest of the office. He leafed
through a stack of post, opened desk drawers, glanced at the files. The absence of time permitted nothing more than a cursory examination of the items, and Gabriel found nothing that leapt to his attention.
He checked the progress of the download, then stood up and played the beam of the Maglite around the walls. One was covered with several framed photographs. Most showed Mimi with other beautiful people. In one he saw a younger version of Mimi, her shoulders wrapped in a kaffiyeh. In the background stood the pyramids of Giza. They, like her face, were washed in sienna by the sinking sun-Mimi, New Age idealist, trying to save the world from destruction through the power of positive thinking.
A second photograph caught Gabriel’s eye: Mimi, her head resting on a lavender-colored pillow, staring directly into the camera lens. Her cheek was pressed to the face of a man feigning sleep. A hat was pulled down over his eyes, so that only his nose, mouth, and chin were visible-enough of the face, Gabriel knew, for the experts in facial recognition to make a positive identification. He produced a small digital camera from Herr Klemp’s satchel and took a photograph of the photograph.
He walked back to the desk and saw that the download was complete. He removed the disk from the drive and shut down the computer. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. He’d been inside the flat for seven minutes, two minutes longer than he’d planned. He dropped the disk into his satchel, then went to the front door, pausing for a moment to make certain the landing was empty before letting himself out.
The stairwell was deserted, as was the lobby except for the Nubian doorman, who wished Gabriel a pleasant evening as he slipped past and went into the street. Quinnell, a picture of indifference, was sitting on the hood of his car, smoking a cigarette. Like a good professional, he kept his eyes to the ground as Gabriel turned to the left and started walking toward the Tahrir Bridge.
Next morning Herr Klemp fell ill. Mr. Katubi, after receiving a disagreeably detailed description of the symptoms, diagnosed the disorder as bacterial in nature and predicted the onslaught would be violent but brief. “Cairo has betrayed me,” Herr Klemp complained. “I was seduced by her, and she repaid my affection with vengeance.”
Mr. Katubi’s forecast of a swift recovery proved erroneous. The storm in Herr Klemp’s bowels raged on for many days and nights. Doctors were summoned, medication was prescribed, but nothing seemed to work. Mr. Katubi set aside his hard feelings for Herr Klemp and personally assumed responsibility for his care. He prescribed a time-proven potion of boiled potatoes sprinkled with lemon juice and salt and delivered the concoction himself three times daily.
Illness softened Herr Klemp’s demeanor. He was pleasant to Mr. Katubi and even apologetic to the maids who had to clean his appalling bathroom. Sometimes, when Mr. Katubi entered the room, he would find Herr Klemp seated in the armchair next to the window, gazing wearily toward the river. He spent most of his time, though, stretched listlessly on the bed. To relieve the boredom of captivity he listened to music and German-language news on his shortwave radio, on tiny earphones so as not to disturb the other guests. Mr. Katubi found himself missing the old Johannes Klemp. Sometimes he would look up from his outpost in the lobby and long to see the cantankerous German pounding across the marble floor with his coattails flapping and his jaw steeled for confrontation.
One morning, a week to the day after Herr Klemp had first taken ill, Mr. Katubi knocked on Herr Klemp’s door and was surprised by the vigorous voice that ordered him to come in. He slipped his passkey into the lock and entered. Herr Klemp was packing his bags.
“The storm has ended, Katubi.”
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as one can be in a situation like this.”
“I’m sorry Cairo treated you so badly, Herr Klemp. I suppose the decision to extend your stay turned out to be a mistake.”
“Perhaps, Katubi, but then I’ve never been one to dwell on the past, and neither should you.”
“It is the Arab disease, Herr Klemp.”
“I suffer from no such affliction, Katubi.” Herr Klemp placed his shortwave radio into his bag and closed the zipper. “Tomorrow is another day.”
It was raining in Frankfurt that evening-the Lufthansa pilot had made that abundantly clear. He’d spoken of the rain while they were still on the ground in Cairo, and twice during the flight he’d provided them tedious updates. Gabriel had latched onto the pilot’s plodding voice, for it had given him something to do besides stare at his wristwatch and calculate the hours until Khaled’s next massacre of innocents. As they neared Frankfurt he leaned his head against the glass and looked out, hoping to glimpse the first lights of the south German plain, but instead he saw only blackness. The jetliner plunged into the cloud, and his window was awash with horizontal streaks of rainwater-and Gabriel, in the scampering droplets, saw Khaled’s teams moving into position for their next strike. Then suddenly the runway appeared, a sheet of polished black marble rising slowly to receive them, and they were down.
In the terminal he went to a telephone kiosk and dialed the number for a freight forwarding company in Brussels. He identified himself as Stevens, one of his many telephone names, and asked to speak to a Mr. Parsons. He heard a series of clicks and hums, then a female voice, distant and with a slight echo. The girl, Gabriel knew, was at that moment seated on the Operations Control desk at King Saul Boulevard.
“What do you require?” she asked.
“Voice identification.”
“You have a recording?”
“Yes.”
“Quality?”
Gabriel, using Hebrew terms no listener could comprehend, tersely relayed to the girl the technical means with which he had captured and recorded the subject’s voice.
“Play the recording, please.”
Gabriel pressed PLAY and held his recorder up to the mouthpiece of the receiver. Male voice, perfect French.
“It’s me. Give me a ring when you have a chance. Nothing urgent. Ciao.”
He lowered the tape player and placed the receiver against his ear.
“No match on file,” said the woman.
“Compare to unidentified voiceprint 698/D.”
“Stand by.” Then, a moment later: “It’s a match.”
“I need a telephone number ID.”
Gabriel located the second intercept, then pressed PLAY and held the recorder up to the phone again. It was the sound of Mimi Ferrere making an international call from the phone in her office. When the last number had been dialed, Gabriel pressed PAUSE.
The woman at the other end of the line recited the number: 00 33 91 54 67 98. Gabriel knew that 33 was the country code for France and that 91 was the city code for Marseilles.
“Run it,” he said.
“Stand by.”
Two minutes later the woman said: “The telephone is registered to a Monsieur Paul Veran, 56 boulevard St-Remy, Marseilles.”
“I need another voice identification.”
“Quality?”
“Same as before.”
“Play the recording.”
Gabriel pressed PLAY, but this time the voice was drowned out by the sound of a security announcement, in German, blaring from the speaker above his head: Achtung! Achtung! When it was over, he pressed PLAY again. This time the voice, a woman’s, was clearly audible.
“It’s me. Where are you? Call me when you can. Much love.”
STOP.
“No match on file.”
“Compare to unidentified voiceprint 572/B.”
“Stand by.” Then: “It’s a match.”
“Please note, subject goes by the name Mimi Ferrere. Her address is 24 Brazil Street, apartment 6A, Cairo.”
“I’ve added it to the file. Elapsed time of this call four minutes, thirty-two seconds. Anything else?”
“I need you to pass a message to Ezekiel.”
Ezekiel was the telephone code word for the Operations directorate.
“Message?”
“Our friend is spending time
in Marseilles, at the address you gave me.”
“Number 56 boulevard St-Remy?”
“That’s right,” Gabriel said. “I need instructions from Ezekiel on where to proceed.”
“You’re calling from Frankfurt airport?”
“Yes.”
“I’m terminating this call. Move to another location and call back in five minutes. I’ll have instructions for you then.”
Gabriel hung up the phone. He went to a newsstand, bought a German magazine, then walked a short distance through the terminal to another kiosk of telephones. Same number, same patter, same girl in Tel Aviv.
“Ezekiel wants you to go to Rome.”
“Rome? Why Rome?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
It was no matter. Gabriel knew the answer.
“Where should I go?”
“The apartment near the Piazza di Spagna. Do you know it?”
Gabriel did. It was a lovely safe flat at the top of the Spanish Steps, not far from the Church of the Trinita dei Monti.
“There’s a flight from Frankfurt to Rome in two hours. We’re booking a seat for you.”
“Do you want my frequent-flyer number?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Have a safe trip,” said the girl, and the line went dead.
PART THREE
THE GARE de LYON
15
MARSEILLES
For the second time in ten days Paul Martineau made the drive from Aix-en-Provence to Marseilles. Once again he entered the coffeehouse on the small street off the rue des Convalescents and climbed the narrow stairs to the flat on the first floor, and once again he was greeted on the landing by the gowned figure who spoke to him quietly in Arabic. They sat, propped on silk pillows, on the floor of the tiny living room. The man slowly loaded hashish into a hubble-bubble and touched a lighted match to the bowl. In Marseilles he was known as Hakim el-Bakri, a recent immigrant from Algiers. Martineau knew him by another name, Abu Saddiq. Martineau did not refer to him by that name, just as Abu Saddiq did not call Martineau by the name he’d been given by his real father.
