Obsession

  Bergman jumped to his feet, openly displaying his anger.

  “You put the stability and diplomatic relations of a country at risk just for money?”

  “Mr. Bergman,” said Al-Saud, “if your government and the El Al authorities hadn’t acted indifferently when our clients approached them in good faith to negotiate for compensation, we wouldn’t be in this situation today. But of course, when our clients tried to negotiate, they didn’t have the evidence we have now. The investigation brought facts to light that put us in an excellent bargaining position.”

  “You put too much at risk with that strategy.”

  “He who dares wins,” Tony said, and Bergman remembered that this was the SAS motto.

  “The situation now seems irreversible with all these reports already out there,” the Israeli continued. “The NRC Handelsblad sold the information to every major newspaper and television channel in the world. The UN commission in charge of enforcing the Convention on Chemical Weapons is already requesting entry to Israel to assess the Institute of Biological Research.”

  Thorton and Hill’s laughter ricocheted off the thick concrete walls.

  “Worried about the UN, Mr. Bergman?” Mike said mockingly. “Your great friend and ally, the United States, owns the UN. You know as well as we do that that commission will not cross the Israeli border unless it’s to take a vacation on the banks of the Dead Sea.”

  “There are groups in the United States who are very uncomfortable with these revelations,” Bergman explained, “and they’re starting to lobby for an investigation. We still don’t know how far the damage you’ve caused us already will spread.”

  “Mr. Bergman,” Al-Saud intervened, with an air of impatience, “are you in a position to assure our clients that you will sit down to negotiate compensation with the authorities of your country and El Al?”

  “What will we get in exchange?”

  “You’ll be able to turn the situation around a hundred and eighty degrees, recover your good image in the international community, and halt the hail of threats raining down from the UN and international humanitarian organizations who haven’t approved of Israel for many years.”

  “That’s impossible. It would be like trying to stop a truck with your hand. You set this story in motion and it will be difficult to repair now.”

  “It won’t be if we tell you how,” Mike declared.

  Bergman glanced over at these three men, incredulous that they had been able to put a state as powerful as Israel in this position. He fixed his gaze on Al-Saud. His instinct told him that the son of the Saudi prince had been the brains behind this strategy. Did he hate Jews because of his aristocratic Arabic ancestry? He didn’t think so. He suspected that in his pride and arrogance he considered himself above such trivial details as racial or religious prejudice. He didn’t even seem angry, just fed up, as though all these issues bored him. Moreover, thought Bergman, he couldn’t ignore his friendship with Shiloah Moses.

  “How can you stop the scandal that you have set in motion?”

  “After the meeting between our clients and the authorities of your country, we’ll tell you,” Mike said.

  “If a suitable compensatory sum is agreed,” Tony clarified.

  “Do you really expect me to go back to my government with so little?”

  “It isn’t much,” Al-Saud accepted. “However, the threat of the rest of the information you just saw,” he said, gesturing at the folder in Bergman’s hands, “ending up in the newspapers is very strong.”

  “This is blackmail!” the Israeli cried, pretending to be scandalized, while his interlocutors remained impassive.

  “Your government will have to trust our word,” Mike picked up. “Time is against us. The media will keep on speculating and drawing conclusions. If we act quickly, the impact of the damage will be minimized. The meeting should take place in the next few days.”

  Bergman’s head drooped and he looked at the folder in his hands.

  “You can take it,” said Al-Saud. “They’re just copies. The originals are held under extremely secure conditions. If something should happen to me or my partners, the documentation and the rest of the photos will end up where you don’t want it. And I promise you that, by that point, it will be impossible to stop the impending catastrophe.”

  Ariel Bergman admitted defeat. Realistically, he had known since his boss ordered him to go to Pont Alexandre III that he was representing a vanquished army coming to sign the peace treaty. As the head of Mossad in Europe, he had failed Israel.

  “Tomorrow I will get in touch with you to tell you when the meeting will take place.”

  “We’ll organize the meeting ourselves,” Al-Saud retorted. “It will be at the Mercure offices, in the Hotel George V.”

  “We guarantee the room is free of microphones and cameras,” Tony added.

  “What telephone number should I call you on?”

  Michael Thorton handed him a business card.

  “Any of these. They’re secure lines.”

  “Before you go, Mr. Bergman,” Al-Saud said, “I wanted to show you something.” He lifted the cover of a folder that rested on the table and extracted a photograph. He passed it to the Israeli. “Do you recognize him?”

  “Yes. It’s Ulrich Wendorff. How did you get this photograph? Is it recent?”

  “Who’s Ulrich Wendorff?” Al-Saud asked.

  “An ex-member of the Red Army Faction. He was operating in Europe in the seventies and the early eighties. Is this a recent photograph?”

  “Yes, from a few weeks ago.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “That doesn’t matter. But I can tell you that it was taken in Paris.”

  “According to our investigations,” Bergman declared, “he now goes by the name Udo Jürkens. Can I keep this?” he asked, holding up the photograph. Al-Saud blinked in a sign of agreement. “What else do you know about him?”

  “He was present on the day of the assassination attempt on Shiloah Moses and the Silent One.”

  “I warn you, he’s a very dangerous guy. A killing machine.”

  “I know,” Al-Saud assured him. “One last question,” he said, and his eyes bored into Bergman, unsettling him. “Who is your sayan inside Mercure Inc.?”

  The air seemed to have frozen over.

  “Don’t try to deny it,” Tony backed him. “We know with absolute certainty that you have someone in our company.”

  The Israeli stayed silent for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and spoke. “Gentlemen, you know how this works. You can’t really expect me to hand in my collaborator.”

  “Claude Masséna?” Tony suggested.

  Bergman looked at him blankly. After a silence, he said, “If you’ll allow me to take care of my sayan, I would be in your debt. And that could be useful to you in the future.”

  Eliah, Tony and Mike exchanged a look. They knew from Derek Byrne, the bodyguard assigned to Zoya during her vacation in the Caribbean, that she and Masséna had returned to Paris that morning.

  “Fine, Mr. Bergman,” said Mike. “Take care of Masséna however you judge best. We simply ask you to make it clear to him that he can’t come near our business in any way, especially with a computer. If he does, we will find out, and the agreement we’ve just made will be broken.”

  “Now, put on the blindfold,” said Al-Saud, handing it to him. “Our men will take you back to Pont Alexandre III.”

  As soon as Bergman left the base, Al-Saud called Zoya.

  “Zoya.”

  “Hello, sweetie.”

  “Where’s Masséna?”

  “At his house, I suppose. We got back this morning.”

  “I know. It’s late, but I need to see you now.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Half an hour later, Al-Saud went into the apartment on Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré. They embraced.

  “I’m happy to be back. I think I’ve had a Claude overdose. Just imagine: he proposed
to me!”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I would think about it. I wanted to consult with you.”

  “Your job with Masséna is over. Take advantage of the marriage proposal to reject him and break up with him definitively. Do you have the gun I gave you?”

  “Is he that dangerous? I shudder to think that for all those days in the Caribbean I didn’t have it with me. It would have been impossible to take it with me on the plane.”

  “That’s why we assigned you a bodyguard; he was staying in the connecting room. You were protected.” Zoya threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. “Zoya, I’m in a hurry. Bring me the gun, I want to check it.”

  Al-Saud checked the Beretta 950 BS’s clip and explained to Zoya for the umpteenth time how to use it.

  “I want you to summon him here to end the relationship. Derek Byrne, the one who was guarding you in the Caribbean, will hide in your bedroom while you speak to Masséna. Call me as soon as you agree on the time and day so that I can tell Byrne.”

  Zoya walked him to the door. Before they said good-bye, she asked him about Natasha.

  “Did you send her the money?”

  “Yes,” said Al-Saud. “I transferred five thousand dollars into the account she gave you.”

  “You couldn’t find out where it was?”

  “I could, but I don’t want to. I’ll respect her decision. If Natasha wanted to get away, she had good reason to do so.”

  “Salvador Dalí? It’s Picasso.”

  All the happiness he had built up over his vacation vanished when he heard that name. Claude Masséna wanted to be finished with these guys; they scared him, though he was much more frightened at the thought of Al-Saud discovering his betrayal.

  “Yes, it’s me. Salvador Dalí.”

  “You can’t go back to Mercure Inc. Your cover has been blown.”

  Masséna stepped over to a chair and collapsed into it. He was trembling. The phone receiver shook against his ear. He felt a pressing need to speak, to ask questions, to scream, but he wasn’t able to utter a sound.

  “I…I’ve lost my job?”

  “Don’t worry,” Bergman said. “You’ll work for us if you pass a series of tests and exams. Your computer skills would be very much appreciated in our organization. I recommend that you don’t try to go near Mercure ever again, physically or via a computer.”

  “Al-Saud’s going to kill me,” he blubbered, close to tears.

  “We’ve come to an agreement. If you stay away, they won’t take any action against you. I’ll call you again in the next few days.”

  Minutes after he hung up with Picasso, the ring of his cell phone made him jump in his seat. He barely dared to answer.

  “Allô?”

  “Claude, it’s Zoya.”

  “My love…” Relief spread through his body, his muscles relaxed, a torpor came over him similar to the feeling he had when he got stoned. He loved Zoya more than ever. During those two weeks in that Caribbean paradise, he had convinced himself that she hadn’t been part of the plot that put him in Mercure’s clutches. Zoya loved him; she would never betray him. The fact that he had seen Al-Saud coming out of her building on Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré didn’t mean that he knew Zoya; hundreds of people lived there.

  “We need to talk. Can you come over on Monday night?”

  “It’s Thursday. Won’t we see each other before then?”

  “I have a lot of work this weekend. Does nine work for you?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Depression replaced his panic. For fifteen days he had forgotten that Zoya was a prostitute.

  On Friday morning, while they were eating breakfast together in the flower, Matilde and Al-Saud planned the day’s activities. Eliah didn’t like to hear that Ezequiel had called the night before and that Juana and Matilde were going to visit him at Jean-Paul Trégart’s before they went to the institute.

  “He just got back from Córdoba. He’s very depressed about Roy’s death and other things. Why don’t you want me to go see him?”

  “Because Ezequiel and I aren’t on good terms and I know that he’ll say bad things about me to try and separate us. And he’s your best friend and I’m afraid that you’ll listen to him.”

  “It’s not surprising that Ezequiel doesn’t really like you after what you did at Jean-Paul’s house.”

  “I would do it again,” he retorted defensively. “I would point a gun at him again to warn him not to come near us. I was insane with rage! I wanted to kill him.”

  Matilde stretched her arm across the table and squeezed his hand.

  “It’s okay, I understand. But that’s in the past. I want to forget it.”

  How can we forget with that monster after you? was what he wanted to say, consumed by resentment and jealousy, but the love that she inspired in him ensured that he kept his mouth shut. The words would have upset her and destroyed the serenity that she was recovering day by day.

  “Yes, yes,” he said instead. “I want to forget it too. Don’t pay me any attention. Go to Ezequiel’s. But no arguments, Matilde: Diana and Markov have to go into the Trégart house with you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, very clear.”

  When he heard the doorbell ring, anxiety sent Ezequiel rushing down the stairs. He sprinted across the spacious hall and flung open the door before the maid could get there. Juana and Matilde smiled at him from the doorway, and he felt a knot in his throat. All three melted into a silent hug. When they pulled apart, Ezequiel saw the bodyguards.

  “Let them in, Eze,” Juana said. “Last Friday a madman attacked Mat.”

  Matilde saw that Ezequiel’s anxious expression was accentuated by lines of exhaustion coupled with his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes.

  “Again?”

  “Yes, again,” said Juana. “And it seems that it has something to do with your brother.”

  “My God,” Ezequiel gasped. “Come in. We have so much to talk about.”

  They didn’t eat much during lunch. The description of the funeral and Roy’s burial moved them too much, taking away their appetites. The food cooled on their plates.

  “Eze,” said Juana. “What was Roy mixed up in?”

  “I don’t know. When he got here, he asked us to give him a space so he could finish a project. He set up a drawing board that a friend of ours lent him and spent the whole day drawing and making calculations, writing on a typewriter and thinking. One day he finished, took down the drawing board, tidied up the mess he had made and it was as if nothing had ever happened. When I asked him, he would tell me that he was working on a project that meant he would never have to suffer poverty again. Apart from that, he didn’t give any explanations. You know how he was, Mat. So protective of his work.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “More recently he had become almost paranoid about it, as if someone was following him.”

  “It appears that there probably was someone following him,” Juana said. “And whoever it was poisoned him.”

  A silence fell over all three of them.

  “Al-Saud and Roy were involved in something,” Ezequiel said, looking at Matilde, who stopped her glass halfway to her mouth and looked up.

  “What do you mean ‘were involved in something’?” Juana asked.

  “Al-Saud went to see him at the hospital at least twice. I don’t know what they talked about, Roy never wanted to tell me, but I suspect that it was related to Blahetter Chemicals. The day that Roy started to get very sick, Al-Saud came into his room. He helped me hold him down, because he was convulsing and vomiting. I was carrying a Federal Express envelope that had come here for Roy; it came from Córdoba. When I saw Roy in that state, I must have let it fall to the floor. Later I looked for it and couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  “What are you insinuating?” Juana wanted to know. Matilde just listened.

  “That Al-Saud took it. I think it was for him anyway.”

  They all remained silent w
hile the maid collected the plates. Juana took advantage of the pause to go to the bathroom, and Matilde to ask Ezequiel to forgive her.

  “I failed you, Eze. I should have been there with you, supporting you at such a difficult time. But I was a coward. I imagined all those people, your family, the long hours of waiting, the funeral, the burial, and I told myself that I wouldn’t have the strength to bear it.”

  “You were right not to come. My grandfather wasn’t sad, just furious, and he was taking it out on anyone. You would have been his prime target.”

  “Still, I now regret not having gone. Not for your family or even for Roy, who’s resting in peace now, but for you. Also, my papa got very angry because I didn’t travel to Córdoba with him.”

  “He didn’t go either, to the funeral or the burial. Of your family, only your aunt Enriqueta and your sister Dolores came, with her husband. No one else.”

  “My father didn’t go?”

  “No.”

  “Where could he have been?”

  Yasmín left the laboratory at noon. In general, she ate lunch in her office or in the dining room with her employees but since Wednesday she had been eating at Eliah’s house; she even went for dinner. He didn’t mention her unusual appearances or speculate about why she had changed her routine, although he must have suspected that she was visiting to find out how Sándor was doing. In fact, various people had noticed her interest in the Bosnian, including her mother. That morning, before she left for the estate in Jeddah, Francesca had appeared in her daughter’s bedroom.

  “What’s going on between you and Sándor?”

  “Nothing,” she answered quickly. “Why so you ask?”

  “Because I watch you. You’re my daughter and I know you better than anyone. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t know you very well. I know that you’re restless and nervous. I know that you’re not happy with André.”

  “I’m very happy with André!” Yasmín said, upset.

  “I’m not testing you, Yasmín. Or interrogating you to find out if you’re doing the right thing. I just want to know if you’re happy and if you’re following your heart. That’s all.”