House of Spies Page 23

  It was into this category of asset that Jean-Luc Martel, hotelier, restaurateur, clothier, jeweler, and international dealer of illicit narcotics, fell. He had not volunteered his services. Nor had he been lured to the table through the power of persuasion. He had been identified, assessed, and targeted with an elaborate and costly operation. His relationship with Olivia Watson had been torn asunder, his business associate had been beaten mercilessly with a hammer, he had been threatened with prison and ruin. Nevertheless, a recruitment still had to be made. Coercion could open a door, but to close a deal required skill and seduction. An accommodation would have to be reached. It was unavoidable. They needed Jean-Luc Martel much more than he needed them. Drug dealers were a dime a dozen. But Saladin was one of a kind.

  He did not go easily to his fate, but this was to be expected; a man who kills both his father and his mentor is not a man who frightens easily. He evaded, he counterattacked, he made threats of his own. Rousseau, however, did not rise to Martel’s bait. He was the perfect foil—unthreatening in appearance, slow to anger, patient to a fault. Martel tested Rousseau’s forbearance often, such as when he demanded written assurances, beneath an official Interior Ministry letterhead, granting him immunity from prosecution, now and forever, amen. Such clemency was not Rousseau’s to bestow, for he was operating without ministry mandate or even the knowledge of his masters at the DGSI. And so he smiled in the face of Martel’s intransigence and, with a nod in Mikhail’s direction, played a moment or two of René Devereaux’s seaborne interrogation.

  “He’s lying,” snapped Martel when the audio went silent. “It’s a complete fantasy.”

  It was at this point, Gabriel would later recall—and the hidden cameras confirmed it was so—that the wind went out of Martel’s sails. He settled next to Mikhail, a curious choice, and stared at the face of Natalie, who stared at the floor. A long silence ensued, long enough so that Rousseau saw fit to replay the relevant portion of the recording, the portion regarding a certain Mohammad Bakkar, one of Morocco’s largest producers of hashish, by some accounts the largest, a man who liked to call himself the king of the Rif Mountains, the region of the country where hashish is grown and processed for export to Europe and beyond. The man who, according to René Devereaux, was Martel’s one and only supplier.

  “I take it,” said Rousseau quietly, “you’ve heard the name.”

  And Martel, with the smallest of nods, confirmed that he had. Then the eyes moved from Natalie to Keller, who was standing protectively behind her. Keller had deceived him, Keller had betrayed him. And yet at that moment, it seemed that Jean-Luc Martel regarded Keller as his one and only friend in the room.

  “Why don’t you give us a bit of background?” suggested Rousseau. “We’re amateurs, after all. At least when it comes to the business of narcotics. Help us understand how it all works. Enlighten us as to the wicked ways of your world.”

  Rousseau’s request was not as innocent as it sounded. René Devereaux had already given Keller chapter and verse on Mohammad Bakkar’s links to the network. But Rousseau wanted to get Martel talking, which would allow them to test the veracity of his words. A certain amount of deception was to be expected. Rousseau would demand absolute truth only where it mattered.

  “Tell us a little about this man Mohammad Bakkar,” he was saying. “Is he short or tall? Is he thin or is he fat like me? Does he have any hair or is he bald? Does he have one wife or two? Does he smoke? Does he drink? Is he religious?”

  “He’s short,” answered Martel after a moment. “And, no, he doesn’t drink. Mohammad is religious. Very religious, in fact.”

  “Do you find that surprising?” asked Rousseau quickly, seizing on the fact that Martel had at last answered a question. “That a hashish producer is a religious man?”

  “I didn’t say Mohammad Bakkar is a hash producer. His business is oranges.”

  “Oranges?”

  “Yes, oranges. So, no, I’m not surprised he’s a religious man. Oranges are a way of life in the Rif. The king has been trying for years to encourage the growers to plant other crops, but oranges are more lucrative than soybeans and radishes. Much more,” Martel added with a smile.

  “Perhaps the king should try harder.”

  “If you ask me, the king prefers things the way they are.”

  “How so?”

  “Because oranges bring several billion dollars a year into the country. They help to keep the peace.” Lowering his voice, Martel added, “Mohammad Bakkar is not the only religious man in Morocco.”

  “There are many extremists in Morocco?”

  “You would know better than me,” said Martel.

  “ISIS has many cells in Morocco?”

  “So I’m told. But the king doesn’t like to talk about that,” he added. “ISIS is bad for tourism.”

  “You have a business in Morocco, do you not? A hotel in Marrakesh, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Two,” boasted Martel.

  “How’s business?”

  “Down.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “We’ll get by.”

  “I’m sure you will. And to what do you attribute this drop in business?” asked Rousseau. “Is it ISIS?”

  “The attacks on the hotels in Tunisia had a big impact on our bookings. People are afraid Morocco is next.”

  “Is it safe for tourists there?”

  “It’s safe,” said Martel, “until it isn’t.”

  Rousseau permitted himself a smile at the astuteness of the observation. Then he pointed out that Martel’s business interests allowed him to enter and leave Morocco, a notorious drug-producing country, without raising suspicion. Martel, with a shrug, did not dispute Rousseau’s conclusion.

  “Do you entertain Mohammad Bakkar at your hotel in Marrakesh?”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “He dislikes Marrakesh. Or what’s become of Marrakesh, I should say.”

  “Too many foreigners?”

  “And gays,” said Martel.

  “He dislikes homosexuals because of his religious beliefs?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Where do you generally meet with him?”

  “In Casa,” said Martel, using the local shorthand for Casablanca, “or in Fez. He has a riad in the heart of the medina. He also owns several villas in the Rif and the Middle Atlas.”

  “He moves around a lot?”

  “Oranges are a dangerous business.”

  Again Rousseau smiled. Even he was not immune to Martel’s immense charm.

  “And when you meet with Monsieur Bakkar? What do you discuss?”

  “Brexit. The new American president. The prospects for peace in the Middle East. The usual.”

  “Obviously,” said Rousseau, “you’re joking.”

  “Not at all. Mohammad is quite intelligent, and he’s interested in the world beyond the Rif.”

  “How would you describe his politics?”

  “He’s not an admirer of the West. He harbors a particular resentment toward France and America. As a rule, I try not to utter the word Israel in his presence.”

  “It angers him?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “And yet you do business with such a man.”

  “His oranges,” said Martel, “are very fine.”

  “And when you’re done talking about the state of the world? What then?”

  “Prices, production schedule, delivery dates—that sort of thing.”

  “Prices fluctuate?”

  “Supply and demand,” explained Martel.

  “A few years ago,” Rousseau went on, “we noticed a distinct change in the way oranges were moving out of North Africa. Instead of coming across the Mediterranean one or two at a time aboard small vessels, it was tons of oranges in large cargo ships, all of which departed from ports in Libya. Was there a sudden glut on the market? Or is there some other reason to explain the shift in strategy?”

/>   “The latter,” said Martel.

  “And that was?”

  “Mohammad decided to take on a partner.”

  “An individual?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose he would have to be a man, because someone like Mohammad Bakkar would never deal with a woman.”

  Martel nodded.

  “He wanted to take a more aggressive market posture?”

  “Much more aggressive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wanted to maximize profits quickly.”

  “You met him?”

  “Twice.”

  “His name?”

  “Khalil.”

  “Khalil what?”

  “That’s all, just Khalil.”

  “He was a Moroccan?”

  “No, he was definitely not a Moroccan.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “He never said.”

  “And if you were to hazard a guess?”

  Jean-Luc Martel shrugged. “I’d say he was an Iraqi.”

  40

  Côte d’Azur, France

  It was clear to everyone in the room—and once again the hidden cameras confirmed it was so—that Jean-Luc Martel did not understand the significance of the words he had just spoken. I’d say he was an Iraqi . . . An Iraqi who called himself Khalil. No family name, no patronymic or name of an ancestral village, only Khalil. Khalil who had found a partner in Mohammad Bakkar, a hashish grower of deep Islamic faith who hated America and the West and would fly into a rage at the mere mention of Israel. Khalil who wanted to maximize profits by forcing more product onto the European market. Gabriel, the silent observer of the drama he had conceived and produced, cautioned himself not to leap to a premature conclusion. It was possible the man who called himself Khalil was not the man they were looking for, that he was merely an ordinary criminal with no interests other than making money, that he was a wild goose chase that would waste precious time and resources. Still, even Gabriel found it difficult to control the banging of his heart. He had tugged at the loose thread and connected the dots, and the trail had led him here, to the former home of a vanquished foe. The other members of his team, however, seemed entirely indifferent to Martel’s revelation. Natalie, Mikhail, and Christopher Keller were each peering into some private space, and Paul Rousseau had taken that moment to load his first pipe. A moment later his lighter flared and a cloud of smoke rolled over the two Venetian canal scenes by Guardi. Gabriel, the restorer, winced involuntarily.

  If Rousseau were even remotely intrigued by the Iraqi who called himself Khalil, he gave no outward sign of it. Khalil was an afterthought, Khalil was of no importance. Rousseau was more interested, or so it seemed, in the nuts and bolts of Martel’s relationship with Mohammad Bakkar. Who ran the show? That was what he wanted to know. Who held the upper hand? Was it Martel the distributor, or Bakkar the Moroccan grower?

  “You don’t know much about business, do you?”

  “I’m an academic,” apologized Rousseau.

  “It’s a negotiation,” explained Martel. “But ultimately the producer holds the upper hand.”

  “Because he can cut out the distributor at any time?”

  “Correct.”

  “Couldn’t you find another source of drugs?”

  “Oranges,” said Martel.

  “Ah, yes, oranges,” agreed Rousseau.

  “It’s not so easy.”

  “Because of the quality of Mohammad Bakkar’s oranges?”

  “Because Mohammad Bakkar is a man of considerable power and influence.”

  “He would discourage other producers from selling to you?”

  “Strongly.”

  “And when Mohammad Bakkar told you he wanted to sharply increase the amount of oranges he was sending to Europe?”

  “I advised against it.”

  “Why?”

  “Any number of reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  “Large shipments are inherently dangerous.”

  “Because they’re easier for the authorities to find?”

  “Obviously.”

  “What else?”

  “I was concerned we would saturate the market.”

  “And thus drive down the price of oranges in Western Europe.”

  “Supply and demand,” said Martel again with a shrug.

  “And when you raised these concerns?”

  “He gave me a very simple choice.”

  “Take it or leave it?”

  “In so many words.”

  “And you took it,” said Rousseau.

  Martel was silent. Rousseau tacked abruptly.

  “Shipping,” he said. “Who’s responsible for the shipping?”

  “Mohammad. He puts the package in the mail and we pick it up at the other end.”

  “I assume he tells you when to expect the package.”

  “Of course.”

  “What are his preferred methods?”

  “In the old days he used small boats to bring the merchandise directly across the Mediterranean from Morocco to Spain. Then the Spaniards tightened things up on the coast, so he started moving it across North Africa to the Balkans. It was a long and costly journey. A lot of oranges went missing along the way. Especially when they reached Lebanon and the Balkans.”

  “They were stolen by local criminal gangs?”

  “The Serbian and Bulgarian mafia are quite fond of citrus products,” said Martel. “Mohammad spent years trying to devise a way to get his oranges to Europe without having to go through their territory. And then a solution fell into his lap.”

  “The solution,” said Rousseau, “was Libya.”

  Martel nodded slowly. “It was a dream come true, made possible by the president of France and his friends in Washington and London who declared that Gaddafi had to go. Once the regime crumbled, Libya was open for business. It was the Wild West. No central government, no police, no authority of any kind except for the militias and the Islamic psychos. But there was a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The militias and the Islamic psychos,” said Martel.

  “They disapproved of oranges?”

  “No. They wanted a cut. Otherwise, they wouldn’t let the oranges reach the Libyan ports. Mohammad needed a local partner, someone who could keep the militias and the holy warriors in line. Someone who could guarantee that the oranges would find their way into the bellies of the cargo ships.”

  “Someone like Khalil?” asked Rousseau.

  Martel made no reply.

  “Do you remember a ship called the Apollo?” asked Rousseau. “The Italians seized it off Sicily with seventeen metric tons of oranges in its holds.”

  “The name,” said Martel archly, “rings a bell.”

  “I assume it was your cargo.”

  Martel, with his expressionless gaze, confirmed that it was.

  “Were there other ships before the Apollo that weren’t intercepted?”

  “Several.”

  “And remind me,” said Rousseau, feigning bewilderment, “who bears the expense of a seizure? The producer or the distributor?”

  “I can’t sell the oranges if I don’t receive them.”

  “So you’re saying—and please forgive me, Monsieur Martel, I don’t mean to belabor the point—that Mohammad Bakkar personally lost millions of euros when the Apollo was seized?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “He must have been furious.”

  “Beyond,” said Martel. “He summoned me to Morocco and accused me of leaking the information to the Italians.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because I was opposed to the large shipments in the first place. And the best way to make them stop would be to lose a ship or two.”

  “Were you responsible for the tip that led the Italians to the Apollo?”

  “Of course not. I told Mohammad in no uncertain terms that the problem was at his end.”

  “By that,�
�� said Rousseau, “you mean North Africa.”

  “Libya,” said Martel.

  “And when the seizures continued?”

  “Khalil plugged the leaks. And the oranges started to arrive safely again.”

  And there it was again. The name of Mohammad Bakkar’s aggressive new partner. The man whom Paul Rousseau had been avoiding. After a prolonged pause to load and light another pipe, he wondered when it was that Jean-Luc Martel had first met this Iraqi who called himself Khalil. No family name. No patronymic or ancestral village. Only Khalil. Martel said it had been in 2012. The spring, he reckoned. Late March, perhaps, but he couldn’t say for certain. Rousseau, however, would have none of it. Martel was the lord of a vast criminal enterprise, the details of which he carried around with him in his head. Surely, insisted Rousseau, he could recall the date of such a memorable meeting.

  “It was the twenty-ninth of March.”

  “And the circumstances? Were you summoned, or was it previously scheduled?”

  Martel indicated that his presence had been requested.

  “And how is that done generally? It’s a small point, I know, but I’m curious.”

  “A message is left for me at my hotel in Marrakesh.”

  “A voice message?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the first meeting where Khalil was present?”

  “It was in Casa. I flew there on my plane and checked into a hotel. A few hours later they told me where to go.”

  “Mohammad called you personally?”

  “One of his men. Mohammad doesn’t like to use the phone for business.”

  “And the hotel? Which one was it, please?”

  “The Sofitel.”

  “And did you go alone?”

  “Olivia came with me.”

  Rousseau frowned thoughtfully. “Do you always bring her?”

  “Whenever possible.”