House of Spies

  “Give it to your people. Tell them I expect to be fully reimbursed.”

  “I’ll get right on that.”

  Keller dropped the bill into a rubbish bin and slid into the back of the first Mercedes. Martel joined him while the others climbed into the second car. They followed the coastline to Rabat, then headed inland through groves of cork oak to the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains. In spring the hills would be green with rain and snowmelt, but now they were brown and dry. Olive trees thrived on the ridges, and in the lowlands were fields of irrigated row crops. Martel stared glumly out the window while Keller monitored the flow of e-mails, text messages, and incoming voice calls on the Frenchman’s phone. With Martel’s help, he dashed off responses to those items requiring immediate attention. The rest he ignored. Even Jean-Luc Martel, he reasoned, needed a holiday now and then.

  On Gabriel’s instructions, they stopped for lunch in Meknes, the smallest of Morocco’s four ancient imperial cities. It was there that Eli Lavon determined conclusively that they were being watched by a man, Moroccan in appearance, perhaps late thirties, wearing sunglasses and an American baseball cap. After lunch, the same man followed them to the Roman ruins of Volubilis, which they toured in the afternoon’s fiercest heat. Lavon snapped a photo of the man while he was pretending to admire the triumphal arch, and sent it to Gabriel at the Casablanca safe house. Gabriel then bounced it to Christopher Keller, who showed it to Martel when they were back in the car again.

  “Recognize him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I might have seen him before.”

  “Where?”

  “At the meeting in the Rif last December. After the attack on Washington.”

  “Who was he with? Bakkar?”

  “No,” said Martel. “He was with Khalil.”

  It was approaching six when they reached the Ville Nouvelle of Fez, the modern section of the city where most residents preferred to live. Their next hotel, the Palais Faraj, was at the edge of the ancient medina. It was a labyrinth of colorful tile floors and cool dark passageways. The owner had automatically upgraded Martel and Olivia to the Royal Suite. Keller was staying in a smaller room next door, and Mikhail and Natalie were down the hall. They took Olivia for a walk through the souks of the medina while Martel and Keller sat on the Royal Suite’s private terrace and waited for the phone to ring. The air was hot and still. It smelled of wood smoke and faintly of piss from the nearby tanneries.

  “How long is he going to make us wait?” asked Keller.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “His mood, I suppose. Sometimes he calls right away. And sometimes . . .”

  “What?”

  “He changes his mind.”

  “Does he know we’re here?”

  “Mohammad Bakkar,” said Martel, “knows everything.”

  When another twenty minutes passed with no call or text, Martel stood abruptly. “I need a drink.”

  “Order something from room service.”

  “There’s a bar upstairs,” said Martel, and before Keller could object, he was headed toward the door. Outside in the foyer he pressed the call button for the elevator, and when it didn’t appear instantly he mounted the stairs instead. The bar was on the top floor, small and dark, with a view across the rooftops of the medina. Martel ordered the most expensive bottle of Chablis on the wine list. Keller asked for a café noir.

  “You sure you won’t have some?” asked Martel, holding a glass of the wine approvingly up to the light.

  Keller indicated he was fine with just coffee.

  “No drinking on duty?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t know how you do it. You haven’t slept for days. I suppose you get used to it in your line of work,” added Martel thoughtfully. “Spying, that is.”

  Keller glanced at the barman. The room was otherwise empty.

  “Have you always been a spy?” asked Martel.

  “Have you always been a drug dealer?”

  “I was never a drug dealer.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Keller. “Oranges.”

  Martel studied him carefully over the rim of his wineglass. “It looks to me as though you spent some time in the military.”

  “I’m not the soldiering type. Never been one to follow orders. Don’t play nicely with others.”

  “So maybe you were a special kind of soldier. SAS, for example. Or should I call it the Regiment? Isn’t that how you and your comrades refer to it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” said Martel evenly.

  Smiling for the benefit of the Moroccan barman, Keller looked out the window. Darkness was settling on the ancient medina, but there was still a bit of pink sunlight on the highest peaks of the mountains.

  “You should watch your language, Jean-Luc. The lad behind the bar might take offense.”

  “I know Moroccans better than you do. And I know a former SAS man when I see one. Every night in my hotels and restaurants, some rich Brit arrives with a private security detail. And they’re always ex-SAS. I suppose it’s better to be a spy than an errand boy for some British bond trader who wants to look important.”

  Just then, Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern entered the bar and sat down at a table on the other side of the room.

  “Your friends from Saint-Tropez,” said Martel. “Shall we invite them to join us?”

  “Let’s take the bottle downstairs.”

  “Not yet,” said Martel. “I’ve always liked the view from here at sunset. It’s a World Heritage Site—did you know that? And yet most of the people who live down there would gladly unload their crumbling old riad or dar to some Westerner so they can get a nice clean apartment in the Ville Nouvelle. It’s a shame, really. They don’t know how good they’ve got it. Sometimes the old ways are better than the new.”

  “Spare me the café philosophizing,” said Keller wearily.

  Rimona was laughing at something Yossi had said. Keller checked Martel’s incoming texts and e-mails while Martel contemplated the darkening medina.

  “You speak French very well,” he said after a moment.

  “I can’t tell you how much that means to me, Jean-Luc.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “My mother was French. I spent a lot of time there when I was young.”

  “Where?”

  “Normandy, mainly, but Paris and the south, too.”

  “Everywhere but Corsica.”

  There was a silence. It was Martel who broke it.

  “Many years ago, while I was still in Marseilles, there was a rumor going around about an Englishman who was working as a contract killer for the Orsati clan. He was ex-SAS, or so they said. Apparently, he was a deserter.” Martel paused, then added, “A coward.”

  “Sounds like the stuff of a spy novel.”

  “Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.” Martel held Keller’s steady gaze. “How did you know about René Devereaux?”

  “Everyone knows about Devereaux.”

  “It was your voice on that tape.”

  “Was it?”

  “I can only imagine the things you must have done to make him talk. But you must have had another source,” Martel added. “Someone who knew about my ties to René. Someone close to me.”

  “We didn’t need a source. We were listening to your phone calls and reading your e-mails.”

  “There were no phone calls or e-mails.” Martel smiled coldly. “I suppose all it took was a bit of money. That’s how I got her, too. Olivia loves money.”

  “She had nothing to do with it.”

  Martel was clearly dubious. “Does she get to keep it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fifty million you gave her for those paintings. The fifty million you paid her to betray me.”

  “Drink your wine, Jean-Luc. Enjoy the view.”

  “Fifty millio
n is a lot of money,” said Martel. “He must be very important, this Iraqi who calls himself Khalil.”

  “He is.”

  “And if he shows his face? What happens then?”

  “The same thing,” said Keller quietly, “that will happen to you if you ever lay a hand on Olivia.”

  Martel was unmoved by the threat. “Maybe someone should get that,” he said.

  Keller looked down at the phone, which was shivering on the low table between them. He checked the number of the incoming call and then handed the device to Martel. The conversation was brief, a mixture of French and Moroccan Arabic. Then Martel rang off and surrendered the phone.

  “Well?” asked Keller.

  “Mohammad changed the plan.”

  “When are you meeting him?”

  “Tomorrow night. And it’s not just me,” said Martel. “We’re all invited.”

  50

  Casablanca, Morocco

  Christopher Keller was not the only one monitoring Jean-Luc Martel’s phone. At the Casablanca safe house, Gabriel was keeping watch over it, too. He had listened to the steady stream of voice calls throughout the long afternoon, and read the many text messages and e-mails. And at seven fifteen that evening he eavesdropped on the brief exchange between Martel and a man who didn’t bother to introduce himself. He listened to the recording of the conversation three times from beginning to end. Then he adjusted the time code to 19:16:13 and clicked the play icon.

  “Mohammad and his partner would like to meet your friends. One friend in particular.”

  “Which one?”

  “The tall one. The one with the pretty French wife and lots of money. He’s Russian, yes? An arms dealer?”

  “Where did you hear a thing like that?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Why do they want to meet him?”

  “A business proposition. Do you think your friend would be interested? Tell him it will be well worth his while.”

  Gabriel clicked pause and looked at Yaakov Rossman. “How do you suppose Mohammad Bakkar and his partner figured out how Dmitri Antonov really makes his money?”

  “Maybe he heard the same rumors Jean-Luc Martel heard. The rumors we spread like chicken feed from London to New York to the south of France.”

  “And the business proposition?”

  “I doubt it involves hashish.”

  “Or oranges,” said Gabriel. Then he said, “It sounds to me as though the person who really wants to meet with Dmitri Antonov is Mohammad’s partner. But why?”

  “Can we stipulate that Mohammad’s so-called partner is Saladin?”

  “Let’s.”

  “Maybe he wants to buy arms. Or maybe he’s looking to lay his hands on some loose Russian radiological material to replace the supply he lost when that ship was seized.”

  “Or maybe he wants to kill him.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And his pretty French wife.”

  Gabriel clicked play.

  “Where?”

  “Drive south to Erfoud and—”

  “Erfoud? That’s—”

  “Seven hours at this time of year, maybe less. Mohammad has made arrangements for a couple of four-wheel drives. Those Mercedes sedans of yours will be useless where you’re going.”

  “Which is?”

  “A camp in the Sahara. Quite luxurious. You’ll arrive around sunset. The staff will prepare a meal for you. Very traditional Moroccan. Very nice. Mohammad will come after dark.”

  Gabriel paused the recording.

  “A camp at the edge of the Sahara. Very traditional, very nice.”

  “And very isolated,” said Yaakov.

  “Maybe Saladin’s thinking the same thing.”

  “You think we’re blown?”

  “I’m paid to worry, Yaakov.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Only one.”

  Gabriel opened a new audio file on his computer and after adjusting the time code clicked play.

  “You speak French very well.”

  “I can’t tell you how much that means to me, Jean-Luc.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “My mother was French. I spent a lot of time there when I was young.”

  “Where?”

  “Normandy, mainly, but Paris and the south, too.”

  “Everywhere but Corsica.”

  Gabriel clicked pause.

  “He was bound to make the connection at some point,” said Yaakov. “They come from the same world. They’re two sides of the same coin.”

  “Keller was never involved in the drug trade.”

  “No,” said Yaakov archly. “He just killed people for a living.”

  “I believe in redemption.”

  “I should hope so.”

  Gabriel frowned and clicked play.

  “But you must have had another source. Someone who knew about my ties to René. Someone close to me.”

  “We didn’t need a source. We were listening to your phone calls and reading your e-mails.”

  “There were no phone calls or e-mails. I suppose all it took was a bit of money. That’s how I got her, too. Olivia loves money.”

  Gabriel paused the recording.

  “He was bound to make that connection, too,” said Yaakov.

  In the House of Spies there was silence, but in the Royal Suite of the Palais Faraj the inhabitants of Gabriel’s operation were now quarreling about whether to dine in the hotel or at a restaurant in the medina. They did so in the manner of the bored and very rich. So convincing was their performance that even Gabriel, who had created them, could not tell whether the row was genuine or staged for the benefit of the Moroccan DST, which surely was listening, too.

  “Maybe we’ve lost Martel,” said Gabriel at last. “Who knows? Maybe we never had him in the first place.”

  “Is that the jinns talking again?”

  Gabriel said nothing.

  “He’s been under our control from the moment we burned him. Blanket coverage. Physical, electronic, cyber. Keller’s practically been sleeping in the same room with him. We own him body and soul.”

  “Maybe we missed something.”

  “Like what?”

  “A missing telephone patter or some sort of impersonal communication.”

  “Newspaper, no newspaper? Umbrella, no umbrella?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No one reads newspapers anymore, and it doesn’t rain in Morocco this time of year. Besides,” said Yaakov, “if Mohammad Bakkar thought Martel had switched sides, he would have never summoned him in the first place.”

  In Fez, the argument over dinner had grown genuinely heated. Exasperated, Gabriel settled the matter for them, with a terse text to Mikhail. JLM and party would be dining at the hotel that evening.

  “Wise move,” said Yaakov. “Better to make an early night of it. Tomorrow’s likely to be a long day.”

  Gabriel was silent.

  “You’re not thinking about aborting, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You’ve come too far,” objected Yaakov. “Send them to the camp, have the meeting. Identify Saladin and light him up. And when he leaves, let the Americans drop some ordnance on him and turn him into a puff of smoke.”

  “Sounds so easy.”

  “It is. The Americans do it every day.”

  Gabriel said nothing.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Yaakov.

  Gabriel reached down and clicked play.

  “You’ll arrive around sunset. The staff will prepare a meal for you. Very traditional Moroccan. Very nice. Mohammad will come after dark . . .”

  51

  Fez, Morocco

  Natalie awoke in sheets drenched with sweat, blinded by sunlight. Squinting, she gazed out at the patch of sky framed by the window, momentarily confused as to her whereabouts. Was she in Fez or Casablanca or Saint-Tropez? Or was she back in the large house of many rooms and courts near Mosul? You are my Maimonides . . . She rolle
d over and stretched a hand toward the drawstring for the blinds, but it was just beyond her reach. Mikhail’s half of the bed was still in shadow. Shirtless, he slept undisturbed.

  She closed her eyes tightly against the sun and tried to gather up the fragments of the morning’s last dream. She had been walking through a garden of ruins—Roman ruins, she was certain of it. They were not the ruins of Volubilis, which they had visited the previous day, but of Palmyra in Syria. Natalie was certain of this, too. She was one of the few Westerners to visit Palmyra after its capture by the Islamic State, and had seen with her own eyes the devastation the holy warriors of ISIS had inflicted there. She had toured the ruins by moonlight, accompanied by an Egyptian jihadist called Ismail who was training at the same camp. But in her dream another man had been at her side. He was tall and powerfully built, and walked with a slight limp. An object of some sort, dripping and mangled, hung from his right hand. Only now, in the heat haze of morning, did Natalie comprehend that the object was her head.

  She sat up in bed, slowly, so as not to wake Mikhail, and placed her feet on the bare floor. The tiles felt as though they had just come out of a kiln. All at once she felt nauseated. She supposed it was the dream that had sickened her. Or perhaps it was something she had eaten at dinner, some Moroccan delicacy that had not agreed with her.

  Whatever the case, she was soon rushing into the bathroom to be sick. Afterward, her head throbbed with the opening shots of an encroaching migraine. Today of all days, she thought. She swallowed two tablets of pain reliever with a handful of tap water and stood for several minutes beneath a cool shower. Then, wrapped in a thin toweling robe, she went into the small sitting room and prepared a cup of strong black coffee with the Nespresso automatic. Madame Sophie’s cigarettes beckoned from the end table. She smoked one for the sake of her cover, or so she told herself. It did nothing for her head.

  You are very brave, Maimonides. Too brave for your own good . . .

  If only that were true, she thought. How many might still be alive if she had found the courage to let him die? Washington, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Antwerp, and all the others. Yes, the Americans wanted him. But Natalie wanted him, too.