Obsession

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Bergman. The photos that Dr. Bouchiki provided for us are authentic and, as we told you, very well guarded. The ones that were published are fakes made from the originals. An expert would detect it immediately.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you altered the authentic photographs to transform them into false ones?”

  “That’s right. You see, it was never our intention to destroy you or put you in danger. Let’s say we just wanted to shake you up and get your attention. If your government demands that the NRC Handelsblad hire an expert to examine the photographs they used, the situation will be resolved immediately.”

  “I have to assume that the NRC Handelsblad isn’t aware of this trick.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “You will have just gained a powerful enemy.”

  “More powerful than Israel and Mossad?”

  Bergman didn’t have the chance to answer. Al-Saud answered his cell phone on the first ring. It was Derek Byrne. He seemed shaken up. In the background, Zoya could be heard screaming. He exchanged a few words with the bodyguard and jumped to his feet. He threw on his jacket and tossed a few bills on the table.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bergman. I have to go. Maybe our paths will cross in the future. Good night.”

  Medes drove at top speed toward Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Al-Saud entered the building with his set of keys. There were people gathered all around the door to Zoya’s apartment. He barged through them and knocked hard on the door.

  “Byrne, open up. It’s me.”

  The door opened by a crack. Al-Saud and Medes slipped inside. Zoya was curled up on the corner of a chair in the living room, sobbing. Claude Masséna was on the floor. Al-Saud immediately saw the pool of blood under the hacker’s head and the gun in his hand. He crouched down and put a finger on Masséna’s jugular. He didn’t have a pulse.

  “He killed himself,” said Derek Byrne. “I didn’t get here in time to stop him. He took out the gun and shot himself, just like that.”

  “Zoya,” said Al-Saud. He sat on the edge of the chair and brushed some hair off her face. “Come here.” He helped her to sit up and held her against his chest, where Zoya continued to weep weakly. “I know it must have been horrifying. I know and I’m sorry. Medes, bring me a glass of cognac.”

  “Eliah, he told me that he loved me, that he had never loved anyone the way he loved me. He loved me! Do you understand? Me, a prostitute!”

  “You’re a great woman, Zoya! What does it matter what you do for a living? I love you and consider you a great friend.”

  “But you wouldn’t marry me!”

  “Because I’m not in love with you, nor you with me.”

  “He was…he was in love with me.”

  “But you didn’t love him. Remember how you told me that you had had an overdose of Claude.”

  “Yes, I know,” Zoya admitted, and seemed to calm down a little. She sat up and accepted Al-Saud’s handkerchief and the glass of cognac Medes offered her. “He knew that you had betrayed him over the National Bank of Paris arrest. He knew everything.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “One day he saw you coming out of this building and it wasn’t hard for him to put two and two together.”

  “Merde.”

  “He had always been suspicious about the help Mercure gave him while he was in prison. I don’t know, he figured it out on his own. You know how intelligent he was.”

  “Zoya, listen to me. We have to report this to the police.”

  “No…not the police,” she sobbed.

  “Zoya, trust me. You’re not in this alone. I’ll take care of everything. We need to agree on what you’re going to say to the police. You’re an employee of Mercure Inc., in the public relations department. You’re on the payroll, so that won’t be a problem. And your papers are in order.”

  “What will I say about Claude?”

  “That you met at Mercure and that you were lovers. He shot himself when he found you in bed with someone else.” He pointed to Derek Byrne, who nodded. Al-Saud got out of his seat and turned to Medes. “Without taking off your gloves, go muss and up Zoya’s bed a little so it looks like it has been used. Byrne, take off your jacket and tousle yourself a little.” He went over to the window, where he took out his cell phone and looked for Inspector Olivier Dussollier’s number. “Allô, Olivier. Eliah Al-Saud speaking. I need your help. Something serious has just happened to a friend of mine, an employee of Mercure Inc.”

  Al-Saud got home late. He was exhausted. A deafening silence greeted him. He walked from memory, not turning on the lights. He took off his boots at his bedroom door to avoid making noise. He didn’t want to wake Matilde. He should have taken a bath, because he reeked of cigarettes and Zoya’s perfume, but instead he stripped down and fell into bed, overcome by exhaustion. Matilde stirred next to him and opened her eyes.

  “Hello,” she greeted him, her voice very sleepy.

  “Hello, my love. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Al-Saud apologized, and drew her to his side to embrace her.

  Matilde immediately smelled the woman’s perfume.

  “What time is it?”

  “Three fifteen. Keep sleeping.”

  She was disappointed that he wasn’t looking for her to make love. Since the attack at the chapel, they hadn’t had sex, because she hadn’t been in the mood. But that afternoon when they went to the apartment on Rue Toullier to check the mail, she ran across The Perfumed Garden and was hit by a visceral desire for Eliah that intensified when he called her around eight to tell her that a setback would stop him from getting home in time for dinner. She had waited up for him, anxiously killing the time by reading, until sleep defeated her. It must have been a light sleep, because she woke up as he was getting undressed. She stayed still, pretending to sleep, wanting him to wake her up to make love to her. He didn’t, and when he embraced her and she noticed the smell of perfume on him, she understood why: he had been with someone else. With that Gulemale, whom he had had dinner with when he was away? After his order—because no matter how sweetly he uttered them, his requests always sounded like orders—to “keep sleeping,” Matilde turned her back to him and curled into a fetal position. A few seconds later, she bit her lip when her eyes spilled over with tears. She repeated the same old story to herself: she had no right to claim him; in a few weeks she would be going to the Congo and everything would be over. It was for the best, especially when she recalled Takumi Kaito’s words. “You should know, Matilde, that if you hope to keep a Horse at your side, and especially a Horse of Fire, you should never, ever restrict his freedom. Give him as much space as he needs, because there’s nothing a Horse of Fire appreciates more than being free.” If she hadn’t been so afraid of going back to the apartment on Rue Toullier, she would have left the house.

  The next morning, Tuesday, March 10, during breakfast in the kitchen, Al-Saud found out that Leila’s grumpy face was because Sándor had returned to his own apartment a few days before, even though he hadn’t recovered properly. Juana’s happy face, on the other hand, was because the night before, Shiloah had called her to invite her to spend a week in Tel Aviv.

  “Now?” Al-Saud was surprised. “With the electoral campaign at such a critical stage?”

  “I asked him the same thing,” Juana answered, “and he said he was going to take a few days to recover his strength before the final, hardest push. The only thing I regret is that I won’t be here on Saturday for your birthday, Matilde.”

  “What does my birthday matter? We’ll celebrate when you get back.”

  “I’m so happy! I never imagined that I would get to see Tel Aviv.”

  “When are you going?” Al-Saud asked.

  “Friday morning. Supposedly the ticket is being FedExed and will arrive some time between today and Thursday morning.”

  “We’ll take you to the airport. What do you think, my love?”

  Matilde just nodded, pensive and distant
. Al-Saud frowned and stared at her. She was in a bad mood, and he didn’t know why. When he woke up, he hadn’t found her at his side. She was already in the kitchen, dressed and eating breakfast. He came over to kiss her and she kept her cup of coffee pressed to her lips, offering him her cheek. Before he left for the George V, he cornered her in the flower room, where he caught her looking out at the Andalusian garden.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie, Matilde. You’re transparent; you can never hide what you’re feeling.”

  Don’t open your mouth, Matilde. Don’t even think about reproaching. Shut up.

  “Something’s upset you and if you’re not going to tell me, I’ll assume that the problem is with me. Or are you having one of those days when women get all sensitive for no reason?” He said in a jocular voice, which vanished when he saw Matilde’s hurt face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t offend me. And no, I’m not having one of those days.”

  “What’s going on, then? And don’t say nothing again.”

  Bite your tongue, Matilde. Don’t say anything.

  “My love, I don’t want us to have secrets.”

  “Oh, so you don’t like secrets?” Enough, Matilde.

  “No,” he said, suddenly worried, “I don’t like them.”

  “Whose perfume was it that you reeked of last night? Is that a secret?”

  Al-Saud stood back and laughed, caught somewhere between worry and surprise. Matilde, meanwhile, was cursing herself for not having been able to keep quiet.

  “Why didn’t you ask me last night? Why do I have to drag everything out of you as though it were an interrogation?”

  “Because I don’t have any right to ask, but if you insist…”

  “What do you mean you don’t have the right? You’re the only one to whom I grant that right!”

  He embraced her hard, making no concessions to her slight figure or her fragility; he kissed her furiously, grabbing the back of her neck. He teased her with his tongue until Matilde’s surrender—her delicate moans, her hands gripping him, her trembling body—pacified him. With his lips still on hers, he said, “The perfume you smelled was from a woman. A friend of mine who called me last night hysterical because her lover had killed himself in her dining room.” Matilde stifled an exclamation. “I couldn’t leave her alone.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I had to take care of everything. Calling the police, going with her to testify, getting her a room at the George V to spend the night. She couldn’t go back to her apartment because the police had sealed it off. And she didn’t want to go back.”

  “Poor thing. What happened?”

  “Her lover wanted to get married. She didn’t. And she wanted to end the relationship. Are we calmer now?” Al-Saud laughed when he saw Matilde blushing. “I’ve never known anyone to blush as much as you.”

  “Forgive me, Eliah.”

  “What did you think? That I had slept with someone else?” Matilde nodded. “It’s strange what I’m feeling. On the one hand, your jealousy makes me happy, I’m flattered by it; on the other, I’m hurt that you don’t trust me.”

  “I’m sorry. Last night I waited up very late. And when you got back, you smelled of that perfume. It made me feel awful. I had been so excited, waiting for you to get home.”

  “Yes? Very excited?”

  “Yes. I stayed up reading until very late trying to kill time.”

  Al-Saud didn’t seem to be paying her much attention, busy as he was running his tongue down her neck and massaging her bottom.

  “You waited up late for me?”

  “Yes.” Matilde’s answer came out squeaky, like a whistle.

  “Why were you waiting for me?”

  She took a few seconds to answer. Eliah’s hands, which had slipped under her shirt and were undoing her bra, had made her mind go blank.

  “Because I was thinking all afternoon about making love to you.”

  Al-Saud buried his fingers in Matilde’s buttocks and rubbed his erection against her.

  “Ah, my love,” he said, his voice heavy and hoarse. “You don’t know how desperate I was to start having sex again. I didn’t want to pressure you last night. Since the attack at the chapel…”

  “Yes, I know. But I want to now, Eliah. I need you inside me, on top of me.”

  “My love!” he exclaimed, and dragged her to the bed.

  The payment for services rendered to the Dutch insurance companies arrived at Mercure’s bank account on Thursday, as did the down payment from the Israeli businessman Shaul Zeevi to start the preparations for the coltan mission in the Congo. The president of the Metropolitan seemed interested in forming an ad hoc partnership with Mercure Inc. for high-risk investigations, and wanted to sign a contract to make Al-Saud their consultant. They were impressed with the strategy he had come up with to bring the Israelis to their knees. The government of Eritrea had duly transferred the first payment for the organization and training of its army. Dingo and Axel, who had returned to that job after finishing with Lars Meijer, were working to convince the Eritrean generals that it would be a mistake to do away with their services in the short term; moreover, they were trying to persuade them to create an elite force. They would charge a juicy commission to advise them on buying weapons and vehicles. The income from the monthly contracts (guard details, investigations and industrial security) flowed in monthly and was growing, as if the security failure during the convention on the two-nation state had never existed. Mercure Inc. was experiencing an excellent period of liquidity, although it never seemed enough, given the fixed costs and the prices of the capital assets acquired the year before.

  In spite of the health of his business and Matilde’s apparent happiness, as they took Juana to Charles de Gaulle airport on Friday morning, Al-Saud couldn’t seem to shake off the annoyance provoked by Lars Meijer’s phone call. The Israelis hadn’t wasted any time. On Wednesday morning, the lawyer’s office Van Boar & Becke, one of the most prestigious in Amsterdam, consultants to the government of Israel, sued the NRC Handelsblad for libel and slander. The lawyers at the Dutch newspaper were quick to find out about the strategy of Van Boar & Becke, who claimed that the published photographs were false; they were forgeries.

  “You didn’t make sure that the photos were authentic?” screamed the editor in chief at the NRC Handelsblad, slamming his fist into his desk.

  “There wasn’t time,” Lars Meijer protested. “My informant threatened to hand the material over to The Sun if our newspaper didn’t publish it immediately.”

  “They used us! I’m sure! I can smell it. I haven’t spent thirty years in this office not to know when I’ve been caught in a trap. The son of a bitch who gave you the photos was plotting to get something out of the Israelis. Who knows what!”

  “But—”

  “Now that’s he surely gotten it, he told them his little secret: that the photos are false.”

  “I don’t understand anything!” Meijer said in agitation. “If the photos are false, if they weren’t real, why did the Israelis take so long to react? They must have known better than anyone that these photos aren’t from the laboratories at the Institute of Biological Research. And yet…”

  “Aren’t you listening to me, Meijer? It’s a plot. We’ll never know what was going on behind the scenes. The only thing we know for sure is what the expert told you, that they’re forged. They’ll come after us with everything they have. They’re going to bring us down! My head will roll. And yours too, Meijer!”

  Lars Meijer went back to his office and, without thinking about what he would say, called Mercure. The polite but unmovable Thérèse picked up and, to his surprise, agreed to connect him with Al-Saud. He seemed calm and unaware of the gathering storm.

  “What are you talking about, Meijer?”

  “You conned me, Al-Saud. The photos are forged and the Israeli government knows it. A lawsuit
has just been filed against the NRC Handelsblad. Now I understand the rush to publish the article and your threat to hand the material over to your friend at The Sun. You didn’t want me to have time to check the material that you had so generously given me.”

  “Hold on a second. What do you mean the photos were forged? I paid a lot of money for them!”

  “You paid a lot of money for them without having an expert check them? You expect me to believe that? You don’t trust your own shadow. Stop screwing me around, Al-Saud! I know very well that you used me and that I’m going to lose my job, but I’ll get my revenge. Don’t think you’ll get out of this unscathed.”

  As she excitedly explained to Matilde the next day on the phone, Juana hadn’t flown to Tel Aviv in business class on El Al, but first class. Shiloah Moses had paid for a ticket that cost around eight thousand dollars so that she would be completely pampered, and Juana felt like a queen. In the beginning the excitement of traveling to an exotic region and the luxuries of first class dazzled her so much that she forgot that she was going to reunite with a lover whom she hadn’t expected to see again. Shiloah hadn’t just called her almost every day, in spite of how hard he was working on his political campaign, but he had also wanted her near him for his week of vacation. Seated in the comfortable seat, with a glass of champagne in her hand as she picked at the dried fruit in a stew, Juana suddenly realized how lightly she was taking this. At the end of the four-hour journey, she would see him again. How would she feel? It hadn’t been love at first sight with them; she had even had a few drinks the night she ended up in his room at the George V. Suddenly the magic disappeared, and Juana realized that it might end up being a big disappointment. She thought about Jorge, about how much she had loved him, the excellent sex they had had, and missed him. Now the champagne tasted bitter and she lost her appetite. Shiloah had seduced her because he made her laugh. Brimming with energy and with a razor-sharp sense of humor, he had made her feel comfortable, he had made her happy again. What would happen over an entire week living together alone? She shuddered at the possibility of disappointment.