Obsession

  In the elevator, going back up to the house, Diana whispered to him, “Where are Dingo and Axel going?”

  “Eritrea, in Africa. A war is brewing with Ethiopia and they contracted us to organize an army.”

  “And Ethiopia?”

  “They’re hiring the competition.”

  Diana knew that he was talking about the English company Spider International, against whom Eliah was waging a personal battle in his struggle to make Mercure Inc. number one in the market, with the highest annual revenues.

  Before dinner, Diana and Al-Saud amused themselves in the gymnasium on the top floor of the house. It was a large, simple space, separated by three columns and with small windows near the roof that let in light in the mornings. The exercise equipment was crammed into one section; the other, covered in tatamis, was a dojo. After half an hour of warm-up stretches, they put on their martial arts outfits. At the time, Al-Saud was teaching Diana the Krav Maga technique, designed by an Israeli for his country’s defense forces.

  Eliah was pleased with Diana’s reflexes; she caught both of the batons he threw at her suddenly, without turning around. They also practiced with the katana—a curved Japanese saber about three feet in length—and finally they started hand-to-hand combat in several different scenarios. Diana, flat on her back with Al-Saud’s arm on her neck and her legs trapped, managed to mumble in her poorly pronounced French, “Takumi sensei would say that Krav Maga lacks style. It’s rough and crude.”

  Al-Saud noticed that Diana was losing control. The weight of a man on top of her was intolerable. Images from other times clouded her mind.

  “This technique isn’t a dance, Diana. But it will help you to get out of situations with your life intact, I promise you that. What would you do with a hundred-and-fifty-pound man on top of you? Concentrate! Come back here! Forget Rogatica! Breathe! Diana, breathe. You’ll tire if you don’t breathe the way I showed you. What would you do?”

  “I don’t know! Every part of me is pinned!”

  “Wrong! Your head and teeth are free!”

  “You’re choking me! I can’t move my head.”

  “Diana, listen to me: there’s no situation that you can’t get out of. Didn’t Takumi teach you that in your jujitsu classes? Butt me in the forehead! Don’t you know that the front of the skull is one of the hardest bones in the human body? Use it! If you concentrate and take me by surprise, it will hurt me much more than you. And your teeth? Bite my nose, my cheek, my chin! It’s not elegant, but that’s how Krav Maga is, Diana. This fighting system makes use of anything, including flight if that’s the right thing to do to save your skin.”

  Finished with the session, they practiced chi-kung exercises to restore harmony, quickly showered in the dressing rooms and went down to eat.

  Al-Saud never ceased to be amazed at Leila’s ability to cook and set a table when, in every other sphere, she behaved like a child. Sándor had explained that in the family restaurant in Srebrenica, she had worked in the kitchen because of her natural talent for cooking. Since she hadn’t been accepted at the gastronomic school Le Cordon Bleu, Al-Saud had hired a teacher to help widen her knowledge, which until then had been limited to Slavic foods. Leila wasn’t just in charge of feeding Eliah and his occasional guests. She also prepared lunch for the employees at the base. She was jealous about the washing and ironing of Al-Saud’s clothes and wouldn’t let Marie or Agneska, the housekeepers, enter his room. The thing Leila liked most was going out shopping with Eliah, or in his absence, Medes, when the other was away traveling. They took her to the different fairs and markets in search of ingredients to prepare the meals. It was a treat to watch her haggle with the vendors using sign language and guttural sounds. She had an innate ability for seeking out the best cuts of meat, the tastiest fish, the fleshiest birds and the freshest oysters. She never bought a fruit or vegetable without smelling it first.

  “Leila,” Peter Ramsay said, “this borscht is better than ever. It’s a delight.”

  The girl smiled, sought out Al-Saud’s look of complicity, and buried her face in his arm next to her. Though she didn’t speak, not even in her mother tongue, she understood French and everyone wondered how she had learned it. Dr. Brieger, her psychiatrist, said that Leila had learned it like any child: by imitating her elders.

  During the meal, conversation centered around the convention on the two-nation state. In deference to Shiloah Moses’s excitement about it, Al-Saud and his associates didn’t express their doubts. As Shiloah savored a piece of caneton rôti aux pêches, Tony Hill had time to say, “Shiloah, if you don’t have the support of the press, this convention will go unnoticed and it will be as though it never happened.”

  “I know, I know. That’s why I’ve prepared a few dramatic scenes such as the shining presence of the Nobel Laureate, the youngest winner in history, younger even than Kipling, who has not yet granted any interviews.”

  Al-Saud looked up, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth.

  “You didn’t mention that Sabir was coming to the convention.”

  “He confirmed this morning. You know how much he hates public speaking, but I managed to convince him. We set out together on this two-nation state project, and his collaboration is a key factor. Sabir’s good name in both Israel and Palestine is the biggest asset we have.”

  “You should have told me right away,” Al-Saud reproached him, and said to his partners, “We urgently need to raise the levels of security. I want us to draw up a whole new plan. For the moment, Sabir will stay here, not at the hotel.”

  “Who would want to hurt Sabir, ‘the apostle of Palestine’?” Shiloah asked with a playful irony that annoyed Al-Saud.

  “The list is so long that it would take until tomorrow morning to recite it to you. For starters, his brother Anuar and the major political parties in your country, Likud and Labor.”

  “Who protects him in Gaza?” Sándor asked. “Mercure?”

  “That’s right,” Michael Thorton confirmed.

  “Shiloah,” Alamán said, “I hope you’re not going to announce in a few days that Yasser Arafat is coming too.”

  “I invited him, though it’s impossible to count on him. If he came, Arafat would be rubbing out his signature on the Oslo Accords.”

  “A politician erasing with his elbow what he wrote with his hand?” Alamán said mockingly, “Who would have believed it?”

  “At this point,” Tony Hill opined, “Arafat is probably regretting having signed the accords.”

  “Shiloah,” Eliah interrupted, “I’m giving you a week to confirm the list of speakers and guests. If you want Arafat to participate, you’ll have to hurry. We have to bloody well finalize the security plan once and for all.”

  They went up to the first floor, to the music room, a large, fairly empty room, with wide rugs whose psychedelic blue, lavender, gray and white print evoked Emilio Pucci’s designs. Several black leather Wassily chairs and a white leather Barcelona armchair set the minimalist tone for the decoration. Large pillows patterned with arabesques were piled up around the piece of furniture that housed the Nakamichi equipment and an enormous collection of vinyl records, adding an eclectic touch to the look.

  “What do you want to listen to, Shiloah?” Al-Saud asked.

  “I’ve been humming ‘Comfortably Numb’ to myself all day. It would be good to hear it.”

  “Good choice,” Alamán agreed.

  “Pink Floyd,” said Michael Thorton, “Pink Floyd forever. A classic.”

  The chords of the song surged from all around them, the Nakamichi playing them from the ceiling to the floor, and the music’s slow cadence enveloped them, contained them and bathed them in its warmth. Roger Waters’s voice silenced them. Al-Saud closed his eyes and let the music lull his mind into blankness. Nothing else had the same pacifying power. He thought about Matilde and imagined her lying at his feet, on the cushions, sharing the music and the moment with him. Leila appeared during the second guitar solo; she was carrying
a tray of tea. She had made Eliah a green tea in the Japanese style, which she served to him on her knees, just as Takumi Kaito had shown her, next to the Barcelona chair where Al-Saud always sat. Eliah noticed Peter Ramsay’s blue eyes on the girl. The fact was that Leila looked beautiful as her hands poured the brew into the porcelain cups.

  The record moved on to “The Show Must Go On,” which brought about a change in the mood. Shiloah and Alamán started to talk about the old days, when they would cross the Channel to go see Pink Floyd in Hyde Park; Sándor and Diana listened to them with interest. Eliah and his partners sat a little farther away, discussing strategy for Eritrea.

  Alamán was the first to depart. He was followed by Sándor, who went to relieve his colleague for Miss Al-Saud’s protection duty. Seeing his expression, Eliah knew that the bodyguard was having problems with Yasmín, who could be insufferable when she wanted to. Gradually, the music room emptied. Shiloah and Eliah were left alone, lounging on the armchairs, their bare feet propped up on the cushions and chins on their chests.

  “What can you tell me about Gérard?”

  Al-Saud knew that sooner or later Shiloah would ask about his older brother.

  “Nothing. It’s been a while since I’ve seen or heard from him. Sometimes I call him on the number he gave me. It’s Belgian. He never answers. I leave messages.”

  “The stupid wretch. He hates me. You know that, don’t you? He’s always hated me. And after Berta died”—the Moses brothers had never called her Mother—“he disappeared into thin air.”

  “Does your father ask about him?”

  “Not at all. He’s another bastard. His heart of stone only cares about Israel and the Zionist cause with a little left over for me. He never loved Gérard. Sometimes I think he was disgusted by him, by his illness. He thought him weak, always clinging Berta’s skirts. He never encouraged him! Not even when it became clear that he was the most brilliant thinker I’ve ever known. Do you remember how brilliant he was? My God! Where could he be?”

  “Do you want me to look for him?”

  “No. Let’s leave him be.”

  “He’ll come back when he needs money.”

  “Money? He’s probably swimming in it. He ended up with Berta’s fortune and the house in Île Saint-Louis. I refrained from claiming my part so as not to deepen the rift between us. I signed what I had to sign and kept my mouth shut. I thought the gesture would bring us closer.”

  “What do you think Gérard is up to?”

  “He’s wanted by every major university, government and weapons manufacturer. The last I heard he had signed a contract with Dassault to be part of a team that was going to design the replacement for the Mirage. I don’t imagine he has much time to spare. However, I get the impression that his favorite activity is to hate my father and me. It’s logical that he hates my father. He never showed him affection, broke Berta’s heart with all his infidelities and abandoned us when we were teenagers to run off to Israel. But hating me? Is it my fault that I didn’t inherit that disease? That I was my father’s favorite? Sometimes I worry that he’s died alone, in some far-off country with no one to give him a decent burial.”

  The telephone rang, and Al-Saud knew from the light that flickered on the screen that it was an internal call from the base.

  “Allô?”

  “Sir,” Masséna said, “I’m leaving, but first I wanted to tell you that the records from Rent-a-Car show that the car was rented by Udo Jürkens. I don’t know if I’m saying it right. I’ll spell it.” He did.

  “Yerkens,” Al-Saud corrected him. “What could you find out about him?”

  “Nothing. There was no information on any of the records I have access to.”

  The lack of information put Al-Saud on the alert.

  “Not even a credit card number?”

  “He paid in cash, both the rental and the deposit.”

  “Follow his steps through the Rent-a-Car system. Maybe you can find out where he returned his car. That’s all, Masséna. Good night.”

  To distract Shiloah from the subject of Gérard, which made him unusually melancholy, Al-Saud asked him what kind of activities he had planned for the three-day convention at the George V. The answer led into a more serious discussion about the Palestinian situation, which didn’t have the effect Al-Saud had intended on his friend’s mood.

  “You know what Kafka says, mon frère. We Jews are a very guilty people. And it’s true. I feel guilt. Guilt for the country I live in, a First World country surrounded by the poverty of the Palestinians. I feel guilt for the three billion dollars we receive from the United States while the Palestinian Authority gets crumbs.”

  “You’re exaggerating, Shiloah. Egypt gets the same amount of money from the Americans. And what do they do with it? Nothing that will benefit their own people. There’s as much poverty there as in any country that doesn’t receive subsidies. As for the money Arafat receives, let me enlighten you: it’s not small change. But it is whittled down by the endemic corruption that surrounds the rais and his entourage. They drive around in Mercedes Benzes while the Palestinians have nothing to eat.”

  “That’s what Sabir says.”

  “Listen, Shiloah. If half the people and governments in the world were as patriotic and loved their country as much as Israel, it would be a different place. It’s true that the way the Zionists took the land was controversial, but they turned the desert into an orchard and built thriving cities out of the rock. You shouldn’t lose sight of how hard they’ve worked.”

  “I know, I know. But the time has come to look at our neighbors with empathy. We can also show compassion, mon frère.”

  Al-Saud didn’t have anything to say to that, so he fell into a relaxed silence. Pink Floyd was still playing. Suddenly, Shiloah sat up. The movement alerted Eliah. He raised his eyes and studied his friend suspiciously. The second glass of Remy Martin XO was having an effect. Shiloah, with his head leaning forward and his elbows on his knees, asked him, “How do you live without Samara?”

  Al-Saud’s heart started to thump. He thought that if “Another Brick in the Wall” wasn’t filling every cubic inch of the room, Shiloah would have heard its drumming.

  “Sometimes Mariam’s absence becomes unbearable.”

  Al-Saud closed his eyes again to hide his tears. The guilt left him breathless.

  The car lift rose to street level at Rue Maréchal Harispe, where there was an independent entrance to the base that the employees used. Masséna stuck his head out of the window and stared at the monitor as it captured images of the street. Since he didn’t see anyone, and nothing raised his suspicions, he pressed the button to open the forged-iron gate. He closed the windows before the wheels touched the sidewalk and went out into the cold, lonely night. He drove slowly for a few yards down Rue Maréchal Harispe before coming out onto Avenue Elisée Reclus, where the main entrance to the Al-Saud mansion was. He noticed that his boss’s Aston Martin was parked outside. He envied him the English sports car, in addition to the coarse toughness of his Arabic features, his athletic body and his height. Sometimes he tried to imitate his walk, but after a few feet, he would inevitably fall back into the stooped gait of a computer user. Though he hadn’t seen Eliah’s women, he was sure that there were many, and that they were beautiful. He wasn’t surprised when Tony Hill had vehemently described how beautiful his wife, Samara, had been. At least on that front they were equal; his Zoya’s beauty was beyond compare.

  He took a bottle of cologne out of the glove compartment, the same brand as Al-Saud used, and doused himself in it. Stephanie, one of the computer experts that Mercure hired to assist him—and watch him, he was no fool—had given him the name: A*Men, by Thierry Mugler, and it was a good choice, because as soon as Zoya scented it she became pliable and willing.

  The only car parked on the next block caught his eye. Thanks to his sharp vision he was able to read the license plate: 454 WJ 06, that same one Al-Saud had ordered him to look for in the governmen
t records. As usual, the boss’s intuition had been proved to be correct. The suspicious car had returned to the scene. A man like Eliah Al-Saud, a mercenary by trade, an arms dealer when the occasion justified it, a spy when necessary, son of a Saudi prince and multimillionaire, probably had many different sets of eyes fixed on him. Who was Udo Jürkens? From the German Secret Service? If he could find out his identity, it might give him an ace up his sleeve. Masséna still wasn’t sure exactly how he had ended up in prison. The appearance of Al-Saud’s lawyers, led by Dr. Lafrange, from the Paris office of one of the most prestigious law firms in London, which billed five hundred pounds an hour, had been too fortunate. The tempting offer to get him out of prison in a few days in exchange for signing a contract to work for Mercure raised his suspicions that he didn’t yet understand was going on behind the scenes.

  He was tired. After celebrating New Year’s Eve with two nights of exhausting sex and sixteen hours of nonstop work the following Friday—it was raining contracts at Mercure and though his salary remained the same, the workload was escalating exponentially—he yearned to go to Zoya’s house, take a bath with her, eat something and fall asleep in her arms. He clenched his fists and bit his lip as his doubts assailed him. Would Zoya be with a client? He hated her job even though in the past prostitutes had formed as important a part of his life as computers. He had met Zoya that way, in a bar. Zoya had never charged him, however, not even the first time. “I fell in love with you, Claude,” she would tell him again and again. “The rest are just a job for me, nothing more.” Though jealousy gnawed away at him, he had to put up with it because, although Mercure paid him a substantial salary, it wasn’t nearly enough to provide Zoya with the luxury she was accustomed to—dinners at La Tour d’Argent, winters in Gstaad, summers in Greece, furs, jewels, designer clothes—or to send money to Ukraine to support the prostitute’s younger siblings.