“My country hasn’t yet ratified the Chemical Weapons Convention, has it?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
“They might claim,” Moses said, “that they need these products to manufacture small samples of lethal gases so that they can learn about their behavior and create antidotes in case of an attack from our enemies. You already know that during the Gulf War a great threat was the possibility that Saddam would use chemical weapons. We all ran around with masks on our backs and built sealed rooms where we could survive an attack.”
Al-Saud was well aware of the dangers of war. A gas mask was always part of the complex set of equipment that an NBC (nuclear, biological and chemical defense) aviator took with him on missions.
“It’s a plausible justification,” he admitted. “Since its creation in 1948, Israel has been surrounded by enemies ready to erase it from the face of the earth. They have a right to know what weapons they might have to face. However, there are details that don’t fit this explanation. If the situation is as you describe, why not admit it? I’ll tell you why. Because of the quantities being transported. It’s one thing to transport small amounts for sample studies and analysis and another for large-scale weapons manufacture.”
“Tel Aviv maintains that the construction of atomic bombs by Israel is a strategic decision to deter our enemies. We don’t plan on using them. They might put forward the same argument with chemical weapons.”
“Of course it’s safer for nuclear and chemical weapons to be in Israel’s hands instead of a psychopath like Saddam Hussein. However, deterrence or not, the construction of these weapons violates a huge number of treaties and international conventions, and you can take advantage of it.” A silence passed; Al-Saud went on to say, “If we discover what the El Al plane was carrying, you shouldn’t publish it in Breaking News. It might affect the credibility of the story.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. We’ll find another outlet.”
“A Dutch newspaper would be best. When can you get in touch with your friend, the El Al manager? I have to find out the identity of the fourth man as soon as possible.”
“I’ll do it this morning.” Shiloah got to his feet and touched his belly. “This conversation has made me hungry. Which reminds me we have an invitation to lunch at your parents’ house, where the food is always excellent. Shall we take the hotel limousine?”
“No. I’ll call for my car.”
Al-Saud called down to the attendant in the hotel garage and ordered him to bring his Aston Martin to the front door in five minutes. He put on a short black leather jacket and adjusted the wool collar before leaving the suite. On his way to the exit, as he talked to Moses, Al-Saud analyzed his surroundings, detecting changes, listening to the sounds around him, always alert to any unusual element that might set off his internal alarm. After the severe training he was given when he entered L’Agence, this behavior had become second nature, like breathing. He never entered a room without memorizing the position of the furniture, the appearances of all the people present, what they were wearing and their behavior, whether the windows and doors were open or closed, whether the clock gave the right time, or if the man in the corner was actually or just pretending to read the newspaper. All this was done in an attempt to eliminate the element of surprise. Al-Saud would never forget the saying he had learned at L’Agence: “If you don’t see them coming, then you’re a dead man.”
As they crossed the hotel lobby, Shiloah commented on the excellent renovation Shariar had carried out at the legendary Parisian hotel. They exited the forged iron and glass door just as the English sports car was pulling up on Avenue George V. Al-Saud took in everything at once: Moses’s whistle of admiration as he saw the Aston Martin DB7 Volante, the look that the bellboy exchanged with a passerby and the surreptitious signal he made to indicate Eliah and Shiloah. The passerby moved toward the entrance of the hotel with his hand under his overcoat. He didn’t get the chance to remove it. Al-Saud threw his friend to the ground and launched himself in the air, landing on the suspect’s thorax. The unknown man ended up on his back on the sidewalk, with the air knocked out of his lungs. A second later, Al-Saud had him facedown, with his hands pinned against his shoulder blades and the back of his neck trapped with his knee. Before speaking, he surveyed the surroundings. Except for the upset gesturing of the bellboy, the garage attendant and a group of guests from the George V, he didn’t notice anything strange.
“Who are you?”
“Personne!” the man stammered, breathless and twisting his lips so that they wouldn’t rub against the sidewalk. “A Dutch journalist! My name is Lars Meijer. I work for the NRC Handelsblad. I just wanted to give you this, Mr. Al-Saud. I swear.” With difficulty, he opened one of the hands twisted behind his back and Eliah realized that the wrinkled piece of paper was a business card.
He got up and frisked him from head to toe; all he could find was a wallet, which he looked through until he found the alleged journalist’s credentials.
“I tried to contact you by telephone but your secretary always tells me you’re not available.”
“Nobody knows my schedule like my secretary, Mr.…Meijer,” he finished with the help of the document.
“Yes, Meijer. Lars Meijer. From the NRC Handelsblad. I’m also a correspondent for Paris Match and Le Figaro in Amsterdam. I can prove it if you like.”
Al-Saud threw the wallet at his chest and Lars Meijer had to be quick to catch it. The head of the hotel concierge appeared on the sidewalk.
“Didier, have this man”—Eliah pointed to the bellboy—“collect his things and leave this instant. He’s fired.”
“Yes, Monsieur Al-Saud. Are you all right?”
Al-Saud gave him a look that made him take a step backward.
“How are you, Shiloah?”
“A little bruised but fine, mon frère.”
“Let’s go.”
“Mr. Al-Saud!” The Dutch journalist stopped on seeing the ferocious look on Eliah’s face. “I’d like to speak with you. It will only take a moment.”
“What do you want?”
“To interview you.” As Al-Saud glowered at him, he explained, “I’m doing research for my next book about the new private military businesses, and yours is the most prominent in the market. It would be an honor to be able to interview you,” he repeated nervously.
“I’m not interested. Good day.”
“Please, even so, take my card!”
Al-Saud took it and without giving it another glance, put it in the pocket of his leather jacket. Shiloah was already sitting in the passenger seat. Eliah sat behind the steering wheel, put on his seat belt and tore off with a squeal of rubber.
After a silence, during which the roar of the motor drowned out all other sounds, Shiloah Moses asked, “So that’s why you have that black belt, sixth dan?”
“No. That was a ninjutsu technique,” he corrected sardonically.
“Was that whole display really necessary, mon frère?”
Al-Saud turned his head slowly to look at Moses.
“Shiloah, let me do my job. This is what I was trained for.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Don’t underestimate the danger you put yourself in ever since you decided to start your career by espousing such unorthodox ideas for your country.”
Silence overtook the Aston Martin as they advanced down the Champs-Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe.
“I’m still thinking about what you told me about the Bijlmer disaster,” Moses said. “I wonder how that Argentinean laboratory…what was it called?”
“Blahetter Chemicals.”
“How would Blahetter Chemicals be able to get such toxic substances out of Argentina?”
An evasive, almost mocking smile crossed Al-Saud’s face.
“You would be surprised how easy it is to get in and out of Argentina without raising suspicion. Their radar coverage at the border is terrible. Anyway, Blahetter, who doesn’t just run a laboratory but a
n empire, has a firm ally when it comes to transporting goods to Israel: the EDCA Company, which is owned by the state but run by a subsidiary of the Blahetter group. EDCA provides storage and deposit services for the international cargo planes that arrive and take off in various airports in Argentina.”
Shiloah Moses whistled.
“So it would be a piece of cake for Blahetter,” he realized.
“We don’t have any proof to show that what was in that plane was supplied by Blahetter. We don’t even have proof that those substances were on the plane. But we’re trying to get it.”
They went around the Place Charles de Gaulle roundabout, where the Arc de Triomphe was built, and took one of the roads branching off, Avenue Foch. Al-Saud braked at the corner of Avenue Malakoff, in front of a small mansion protected by a wrought-iron gate with spearheads lining the top. He opened it with a remote control and the Aston Martin rolled slowly into the gravel driveway. Two men in black suits were stationed at the stairway that led to the Al-Saud mansion’s front door. One of them lifted his arm to greet his boss, and Shiloah noticed the pistol strapped under his jacket.
“What kind of guns do your men use?”
“Browning Hi Power pistols, better known as HP 35.”
“Are they any good?”
“Lethal, I’d say. The HP 35 is the queen of the nine millimeters. They carry thirteen Parabellum cartridges.”
“Why did you choose the HP 35?”
“I didn’t, Tony did. It’s an SAS favorite.”
Shiloah Moses knew that Anthony Hill, Al-Saud’s main business partner, who was around forty but was as physically fit as a twenty-five-year-old, had belonged to the British army’s elite troop, the Special Air Service, better known as the SAS, graduating with the highest grades from Sandhurst Military Academy. In Shiloah’s opinion, Hill himself was a lethal weapon, though with his boyish features and wavy blond hair, no one would have believed it.
The Al-Saud family crowded into the hallway to greet Shiloah Moses; it had been a long time since they’d seen him. Francesca pulled away from the group and went out to meet her son, who bent down to kiss her. Francesca held his face in her hands and, although she had memorized every millimeter, admired the beauty of her third son’s eyes; they were a different, more intense shade of green than Kamal’s, like grass in summertime, and his thick, black eyelashes intensified the color. Eliah turned away because he didn’t want his mother to see what was brewing inside of him.
“How are you, love?” she asked him, pushing his hair off his forehead.
“Fine, Mama. And you?”
As he listened to her describe the details of their trip to Jeddah, he looked at her. As usual, his mother wore restrained and elegant clothing. Despite having given birth to four children, she still had a slim figure, which was accentuated by her fitted jacket. She wore her black, shiny hair loose, just as he remembered from when he was a child.
Kamal Al-Saud came over to say hello. Father and son hugged each other and exchanged a few words about the only thing they had in common: horses. Kamal had never agreed with his son becoming an air force pilot or the fact that he was now running one of the best-known private military businesses in the market; he would have preferred it if he had studied medicine, economic sciences or international relations and eventually become the Saudi ambassador to France. For contractual reasons, Eliah had never mentioned his years as a member of NATO’s elite force, L’Agence, but his father wouldn’t have approved of that, either. In Francesca’s opinion they were both too authoritarian, independent and idiosyncratic to get along well.
Over lunch, Shiloah entertained the guests with his loquacity; even Shariar’s older children were laughing. The tenor changed when they started to discuss the birth of Tsabar, Moses’s political party, and the conversation turned to the conflict between Israel and Palestine.
“The truth is that the Arabic world doesn’t know what to do to help the Palestinian people,” Kamal admitted, and went on to mention the different wars that had been fought to expel the Zionists from Palestine and reclaim it as their own. “It’s embarrassing to think that a recently born country like Israel, with an inexperienced army, was able to defeat five old, established Arabic countries.”
Kamal Al-Saud spoke of “his” country and the Arabic world because he felt Arabic; however, Eliah pondered, there he was, celebrating the Western new year in a palace, with his Catholic wife and children, who, though educated in the Muslim faith, led Western lives. Eliah’s father had always been an enigmatic figure to him.
Still listening to the conversation, he started to observe the guests in order to decipher the meaning of their gestures and postures, another of the skills he had learned during his training for L’Agence. “There are faces, movements and attitudes that speak louder than words,” they had been assured by a specialist in body language. For example, his sister, Yasmín, was angry; he could tell from the way she was chewing the inside of her cheek. Maybe she had had an argument with André, who was sitting next to her, although he seemed to be happily following the conversation, or maybe it was another dispute with her bodyguard, the Bosnian Sándor “Sanny” Huseinovic, whom Yasmín had declared she couldn’t stand.
Then he looked at his mother, noticing the way she was looking at Kamal. He would define her expression as she regarded her husband at the head of the table as devotion. It wasn’t just that she loved him; she venerated him. The age difference between them was noticeable. He was seventy-two, with white hair—his eyebrows, mysteriously, had kept their bluish-black color—and his features were aged by wrinkles and worry lines, though he had to admit that the old man was still agile and upright with a keen mind. Francesca, in contrast, wasn’t yet sixty and still exuded her habitual freshness. At that moment, as he looked at Francesca’s face, Eliah understood why his father had renounced Islam and Saudi Arabia, even the throne—something Grandmother Fadila had never forgiven him—all so that he could see this woman looking back at him every day of his life. Eliah had never felt anything like that. Despite the fact that he loved Samara, they had tried to change each other and achieved nothing but arguments and sour faces. He abruptly came out of his trance when Matilde’s face appeared before him.
Later, Eliah found his uncle Nando in a separate room reading Le Monde. The man wasn’t really his uncle, but rather the husband of Francesca’s best friend, Sofía, and he had been Kamal’s right-hand man for thirty years. He sat next to him and asked, “Uncle, why would a woman in Argentina be nicknamed pechochura?” Eliah was referring to Matilde’s “treasure chest” nickname.
Nando laughed. “It’s a play on the word pecho, or chest. That’s what they would call a pretty girl with big breasts.”
“And how about tarantula?”
Nando laughed again.
“Because of the girl’s large, round bottom, like that of a spider, you see. But Eliah, those nicknames wouldn’t be used anywhere in Argentina, only in Córdoba. They’re typical of the region’s sense of humor and fun.”
Eliah announced that he wouldn’t be staying for dinner and, before saying good-bye, went upstairs to look for his jacket. As he walked by Shariar’s room, he caught a glimpse of his nephew Dominique, a six-month-old baby, sleeping in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows. Unlike Alamán and Yasmín, who had formed very strong bonds with his elder brother’s children, Eliah preferred to keep his distance. Children made him uncomfortable and unsure of himself; he didn’t know how to act in the presence of these tiny, noisy creatures and he felt clumsy and ridiculous trying to win their affection. He stared down at the baby from all of his six-foot-three height. Images flashed before his eyes and Samara was in all of them, until he leaned down to smell Dominique’s little neck and thought of Matilde.
He went back to the George V to conclude the progress report he would send to the Dutch insurance companies. He found Céline in the hotel lobby. She was perched on an armchair near the elevators. They regarded each other across the room.
She wore a pink cashmere overcoat and classic black patent-leather shoes. Her legs were crossed and Eliah’s eyes surveyed her slim ankles, long legs and bony knees. A good screw is just what I need to clear my head, he decided. They got into the elevator. In her heels, the girl was almost six feet tall.
Céline stepped back into the corner on the opposite side of the elevator. Then, with smoldering eyes, she opened the overcoat to reveal her naked body, merely accentuated by her small black lace panties.
* * *
* * *
CHAPTER 4
* * *
* * *
Aldo Martínez Olazábal climbed up onto the deck of his newly purchased yacht to enjoy the tranquil sunset in Puerto Banús, in Spain. He looked upward: the full moon stood out brightly against the dark sky, and in spite of the fact that it was winter, a warm breeze caressed his bearded cheeks. He lowered his eyelids and felt a pleasant tingling in his eyes. He was exhausted; he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. After the conversation with his son-in-law at Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires, he had taken an Iberia flight to Madrid. From there he had driven to Banús in a rental car, a nearly suicidal act: two hundred fifty miles, alone and exhausted. But it had been a long time since Aldo had been afraid of anything. After all, as his business partner and best friend, Rauf Al-Abiyia, said, you have to live life on your own terms.
He went back into the boat’s main cabin and lay down on the sofa. From there he called Rauf and, in Arabic, told him that he was on his yacht in Puerto Banús.
“I’m in Marbella,” Al-Abiyia informed him. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Rauf Al-Abiyia was known in the world of weapons and narcotics trafficking as the Prince of Marbella. Of Palestinian origin, when he was seven he fled, with his family, from his native Burayr, near the city of Gaza, in what was known as the British Mandate of Palestine. They had set up on the outskirts of Cairo as refugees, which is to say exiles, living in tents, eating whatever they could get their hands on, without running water or electricity, and having to absorb the bitterness of having lost their beloved land, a pain that still lingered fifty years later. Palestinians in Egypt weren’t conferred citizenship and, with the exception of free education, the country didn’t show very much hospitality. The Egyptian authorities feared them, as they had feared the Jewish population in Moses’ time. In the refugee camp, Rauf had learned the meaning of hunger. Once, Aldo had asked him laughingly why he had three refrigerators and a freezer crammed full of food, and Rauf, with a seriousness that his friend would always remember, answered him with another question: “Tell me, Mohamed,” he said, addressing him with his Arabic name, “have you ever experienced hunger? I’m not talking about a normal appetite after three hours without eating, but the hunger of days, the kind that grips your stomach, fills your mouth with a terrible taste and saps at your will.”
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