He repeated the move a few times without success. Finally, the man passed out from the pain without saying a word. Al-Saud took his knee from his sternum and found a gold charm with a Hebrew inscription on the man’s neck. He approached the one with the broken ribs, who had started to writhe and moan on the ground. Grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, he drew him toward his face.
“Shalom,” he greeted him, baring his lips to show his canines. He continued in English, “Tell your memuneh”—the highest authority of Mossad—“to follow the news next week very carefully. And tell him that I’ll be in touch.”
He took the knuckle-dusters, not because he needed them—he had his own hanging from the back of his pants—but as a memento. He unblocked the door and opened it.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to his colleagues.
Later, in the early hours of Friday morning, the Gulfstream V took off from Rafic Hariri Airport in Beirut on its way to London City Airport. They arrived just after seven in the morning. During the trip, Al-Saud took a nap after talking to his partners on the encrypted phone. None of them had slept; they were all eagerly waiting for the results of the mission at the Summerland Hotel.
“The fish took the bait,” he announced and gave them the details of the night’s events. “Two things became clear in Beirut: we have a leak in Mercure and it’s a Mossad plant.”
“A sayan?” Michael concluded.
“Sayanim are usually Jewish,” Tony said.
“Of the employees who were told about the details of the Summerland operation, which are Jewish?” Nobody knew. “Well then, we need to find out. We need to isolate them and separate them from our systems and sources of information.”
“I’ll do it,” volunteered Mike, who had always been reluctant to believe that they had a leak.
In London, he checked in to the Savoy Hotel. He enjoyed a copious breakfast in his room while he leafed through the city’s major newspapers. A headline in the Times that mentioned NATO reminded him of his years with L’Agence. Sometimes he missed the times when he and his men used to hop from one mission to another; one day they might wake up in Djibouti, the next in Cambodia, and his energy had been enhanced in all three dimensions of his being, physical, mental and spiritual, as if he had been born for this life of risk, diversity and originality. Samara had weighed him down in those years, when she reproached him for his prolonged absences, accused him of having lovers and cried because she was afraid of him. “What do you do, what do you do for a living?” she would blurt out through her tears. “And don’t tell me that you’re a consultant for aviation companies because I’m not stupid!”
This made him think of General Anders Raemmers, his superior, a Danish soldier who had taught him everything he knew about strategy, weapons, explosives, commando groups, camouflage and survival in different climates. Thanks to Raemmers, he could survive just as well in the most inhospitable desert on Earth, the Rub al-Khali, as in the dense tropical jungle of the Amazon. The training had been cruel at times—most had given up after the third week when the complete course lasted a year. He remembered the icy days in the Brecon Beacons, in Wales, climbing a mountain with a pack full of rocks; the stifling heat in the desert where, with huge fans set up to imitate sand storms, they were pulled up into helicopters on ropes; rappelling down the sheer sides of cliffs or buildings without safety nets. They spent hours poring over maps to learn how to read them, a skill he already knew pretty well from his years as a pilot. Then there were the seemingly eternal minutes in the tanks of freezing water, the underwater swimming, learning to drive all manner of vehicles, familiarization with electronic accessories, tracking techniques, resuscitation techniques—the list was endless. “I’ll turn you into lethal weapons, invincible men,” Raemmers rallied them when he thought that their spirits were flagging. He felt an urge to pay him a visit, because although the NATO headquarters were in Brussels, the base of L’Agence, whose location few knew, was in London, in the basement of an abandoned factory in Bayswater. That basement, equipped with technology that looked as though it came out of a science-fiction movie, was the inspiration for the base in the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus.
In the end, he gave up on the idea of getting in touch with Anders Raemmers; their last conversations hadn’t been on the best of terms, given his habit of disobeying orders and changing the plan on the fly. Still, Al-Saud suspected that if he called the old general, he would be received with open arms, with the differences of the past forgotten. “You’re my best man,” Raemmers had confessed to him once. “Why do you drive me crazy like this?” Al-Saud smiled as he remembered the lectures Raemmers would give him when he came back from a mission. “I’ve run out of excuses to defend you from the top brass,” he’d say reproachfully.
There were still plenty of hours until eight thirty, when he was scheduled to meet Madame Gulemale for dinner. He left the hotel and set out to buy gifts for Matilde. He wanted her to look radiant at his mother’s party, so he went to the famous Bond Street, where he bought a dress and a coat from Gucci, a pearl necklace with a white gold brooch at Tiffany & Co., shoes and a wallet from F. Pinet and a jewelry box from Smythson, because he planned to give her many jewels, even if she didn’t appreciate them. The purchases for Matilde, instead of sweetening his disposition toward her, made him more aggressive, because with every acquisition he felt that he had to come up with a compelling new reason for her to accept it. By the end of the day, he was in a thoroughly bad mood, worn down by the desire that had been wearing on him all this time; he wanted to go back to her. The previous five days had become an obstacle course with Matilde at the finish line.
When he finished his shopping, he went back to the Savoy loaded with bags and packages and got ready for dinner with Madame Gulemale. She found him irresistible, it didn’t just show in her obsidian eyes; she also said so explicitly.
“It’s a shame that you’re looking so handsome tonight, because unfortunately we won’t be able to spend it together.”
“Ah, no?” Al-Saud hid his relief with a mask of surprise and offense. “A terrible disappointment, chérie.”
“Unless you’re interested in forming a trio with a friend who’s waiting for me at the Dorchester.” Al-Saud grimaced. “I knew it, you’re straitlaced after all.”
“I want you all to myself or I don’t want you at all, Gulemale.”
They challenged each other with their eyes. It was always like this between them, sexual tension mingled with the underlying power struggle. They had known each other for a long time—Michael Thorton had introduced them in this very city, in the famous club the Ministry of Sound, which they had abandoned to share a night of savage, unforgettable sex. Al-Saud wondered how old this inimitable woman was. Her svelte, voluptuous body, which seemed as though it had been sculpted from ebony, held the mysteries of a life that had brought her from the suburbs of Kinshasa to wealth and power in the European capitals. It was said that she had started out at fourteen, trading contraband cigarettes. Presently she was associated with every kind of illegal trafficking imaginable, especially arms and heroin. Apparently, Al-Saud thought to himself, coltan has been added to the list. They quickly discovered that they had similar reasons for coming to the table at Scott’s: the much-sought-after gray gold in the Congo. Gulemale was offering to compensate Al-Saud generously if he would act as a spy in the Kabila household; she knew about his friendship with Joseph, the president’s eldest son, and wanted to take advantage of it.
“Gulemale, my services might cost you less than you think.”
“Truly?” she said, using the African idiom: “And how much will they cost me?”
“In fact, you can pay me with a favor.”
“Perhaps your favor is related to this joint venture between the Israeli Shaul Zeevi and TMK, the Chinese battery and computer-chip manufacturer?”
Al-Saud smiled.
“You’re well informed, chérie.”
“Truly?”
“
I haven’t congratulated you for being named president of Somigl.”
“Merci.”
“You’ve become an even more powerful woman than you were before.”
“Don’t believe it,” she denied. “I answer to several different groups.”
“Africom, Cogecom and Promeco?”
“You’re well informed, chéri,” she imitated. “What do you want, Eliah?” she asked him straight out, and her posture and face changed. She had discarded her femme fatale mask to reveal another face, that of a businesswoman with few scruples and no fear. “Are you hoping that we’re going let you to exploit our mines and steal our coltan?”
“Our coltan? Gulemale, please! The mines are located in the Kivu regions, which, for your information, are Congolese provinces. And Zeevi has received a license from Kabila’s government to mine in one of them.”
“That agreement isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. And you know that, Eliah. Unless Kabila offers Zeevi the protection of his army. The Kivus might be part of the territory of the Democratic Republic of the Congo on the maps that children study in school, but for all intents and purposes, the land is an annexed province of Rwanda. If Zeevi and TKM want the coltan, they’ll have to buy it from one of our subsidiaries in Europe. If they insist on entering our territory to take the bounty of our mines, they’ll have to do battle with General Nkunda’s troops.” The general was the head of the National Congress for the Defense of the People, a fairly well-disciplined and -trained Rwandan rebel militia, which had occupied the eastern zone of the Congo, what was known as the Great Lake region.
“Is that your last word, chérie?”
“On this matter, Eliah, yes, it is.”
“I appreciate your sincerity.”
“I wouldn’t dare to insult your intelligence with lies, chéri. You know better than anyone how things are in the Congo and especially the Great Lakes region. Now, I have just given you a categorical answer. So what can we expect?” she asked in an innocent, angelic tone.
“Physics tells us that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So, Gulemale, you can certainly expect something from us, though I’m sure that you don’t expect me to outline our plans.”
“The most sensible plan would be for you to advise your client to clip his wings and accept reality: we control the coltan area. We’ll sell him what he needs at a good price. I give you my word on that. And I’ll do it for you, because you’re my best friend.” Al-Saud’s chortle made Gulemale laugh. “You don’t believe me? Well, you are. Eliah, chéri, tell Zeevi to stop being so silly and forget these claims; they’re so typical of Kabila. Are you with a woman?” she shot suddenly and unexpectedly, provoking another chortle from Al-Saud. “I’m just curious,” she backtracked.
“We’ve never been interested in each other’s private lives. Why the sudden change?”
“As I said, I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
Al-Saud paid the bill and, when he put the black Centurion card on the little silver tray, he saw Gulemale’s covetous look.
“It’s a cold but beautiful night,” Eliah commented.
“Truly.”
“Shall we walk to your hotel?”
They collected their coats at the door and, while Al-Saud helped Gulemale into her mink, the doors opened and in strolled Nigel Taylor, owner of Spider International, in the company of an exuberant blonde. Taylor’s smile vanished when he noticed Eliah. Neither of them could forget the images of their shared experiences at L’Agence.
“What a surprise, Al-Saud.”
“Taylor,” he growled.
“Always in good company.” Nigel took Gulemale’s hand. “Gulemale, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“How are you, Nigel?” the woman asked kindly. “Very well, from the looks of it.” She glanced haughtily at the blonde and more appreciatively at Taylor’s suit, which had undoubtedly been made to measure.
“Things are going well. Very well,” he added. “I’ve recently won a few contracts from the competition and that makes me happy.”
Gulemale let out a deep, throaty chuckle.
“You’re incorrigible, Nigel.”
Al-Saud put on his jacket, tossed a few pounds to the coat-check girl and seized Gulemale by the arm.
“Good night, Nigel,” the woman trilled as Al-Saud dragged her out into the cold night.
Gulemale linked her arm through her companion’s and they walked down Mount Street flanked by two gigantic, impeccably dressed black men. In spite of Gulemale’s bodyguards and his annoyance at running into Taylor, Al-Saud stayed alert. “A true soldier never lets his guard down, not even on a beach in the Caribbean with a daiquiri in your hand,” General Raemmers always used to say.
“What happened between you and Nigel to make you hate each other so much? Where do you know each other from?”
“Nothing happened. We just hate each other,” he lied.
Al-Saud wanted Madame Gulemale to understand that his mood had turned very sour and he didn’t feel like answering questions. He was upset that Taylor had seen him with her. It was information that he would have preferred his competitor not know.
“Where do you know him from?” the African woman persisted.
“You’ve changed, Gulemale,” Al-Saud said by way of an answer, and turned to look into her eyes. “You’ve become curious and nosy. Don’t forget that it was your discretion and mystery that seduced me.”
“And my beauty?”
“That was what got me into your bed.”
Gulemale laughed again in her distinctive manner. When they got to Park Lane, they turned left. The Dorchester was a few feet away. They made their good-byes on the steps to the main entrance. Gulemale positioned herself at Eliah’s height, put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. She probed with her tongue but was rejected and eventually gave up.
“You just answered my question: you have a woman.”
“If that was true, would that prevent us from continuing our friendship?”
“Of course not!” Gulemale spun away regally, the tails on her mink coat flaring around her, and went inside.
Al-Saud got into a taxi parked in front of the hotel and, because he was busy telling the driver to take him to the Savoy, he didn’t see Aldo Martínez Olazábal getting to his feet in the lobby of the Dorchester when he saw Madame Gulemale. Nor did he see him greet her with a kiss on the lips and, with his hand on the small of her back, guide her toward the elevators.
Matilde woke up on Saturday at eight in the morning. She opened her eyes but stayed very still in the bed, sensing that Eliah’s side was empty, with the sheets and duvet untouched. She tilted her head a little to bury her nose in the circle of the pillow where she had sprayed A*Men—he had taken the Givenchy Gentleman with him. The night before, pained by his absence and his silence—he hadn’t called her once—she had gotten in bed to smell his cologne and cry. She had replayed the kiss from Monday morning so many times that, like an old, wrinkled photo, it had started to fade in her mind and instead of those minutes of passion she remembered how he had changed after Roy’s death. Maybe he was getting sick of her; she had caused him too many problems. A worldly man like Eliah Al-Saud probably bored of relationships quickly, especially if the woman was a simple, prudish girl who didn’t have money for elegant clothes or to buy him expensive gifts. A girl who made him dulce de leche and put a little cap on the jar! Who painted self-portraits and ridiculous doodles. She threw the blankets off and jumped up so quickly that she lost her balance. She put her hands on the edge of the bedside table to steady herself and, paradoxically, as her vision clouded over, a revelation came vividly to her mind: she had to go back to Rue Toullier. She had realized that Al-Saud’s absence and silence were sending a clear message: he wanted her out of his house. He wanted his space back. What other way was there to interpret his behavior?
It was Saturday. Why, she wondered, hadn’t he come home from his trip? El
iah didn’t distinguish between working days and weekends, the days of the week simply didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t one to divide his time between days of rest and activity. Takumi Kaito had warned her: a Horse of Fire didn’t live according to a routine, and for him, she was the embodiment of a routine.
She ran into the dressing room. She didn’t know whether to change first or pack her suitcase. She decided on the latter. She had to drag a chair over to get it down from the top shelf. The effort left her tired and panting. She threw her clothes inside wildly and even hurled the jar with the stupid little embroidered cap at it; it nestled into her clothes. Then she started to get changed. She yanked out a shirt that had ended up in the suitcase, and in an act of audacity in keeping with her rabid mood, put on the lingerie she had bought at Chantal Thomass: the black plumetis tulle with transparent fabric over her nipples and crotch. I’m not such a simple girl, she thought, cheering herself up.
That was how he found her, fastening her bra, the suitcase still open on the floor. Al-Saud glanced back and forth between her and the jumble of clothes. Matilde felt vulnerable and exposed in her revealing lingerie; she felt completely naked. She was sad to note her embarrassment after the passion they had shared.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” In his surprise, he spoke French.
“Hello,” she murmured, her heart pounding in her ears and throat; she felt like a drum kit. “I’m packing my things,” she blurted out, careful not to look into his eyes. Then she added, “I’m going back to my aunt’s apartment.”