House of Spies Read online

“We’re going to have a lovely dinner in the desert,” answered Natalie.

  Olivia’s eyes met Natalie’s in the mirror. “Please tell me someone is watching us.”

  “Of course they are. And listening, too.”

  Natalie went out without another word and found the table laid with a lavish Moroccan feast. The staff kept their distance, appearing every so often to refill their glasses from on high with sickly-sweet mint tea. Nevertheless, Natalie, Mikhail, and Christopher Keller held fast to their cover. They were Sophie and Dmitri Antonov and their friend and associate, Nicolas Carnot. They had settled in Saint-Tropez earlier that summer and after a fitful courtship had made the acquaintance of Jean-Luc Martel and his glamorous not-quite wife, Olivia Watson. And now, thought Natalie, they were all five at the very end of the earth, waiting for a monster to rise from the night.

  Maimonides . . . So good to see you again . . .

  Shortly after nine o’clock the staff cleared away the platters of food. Natalie had scarcely eaten. Alone, she walked to the edge of the camp to smoke one of Madame Sophie’s Gitanes. She stood where the firelight ended and the darkness began. She stood, she thought, at the earth’s sharp edge. Forty or fifty yards into the desert, one of the armed staff members kept watch. He wore the white robes and headdress of a Berber tribesman from the south. Pretending not to see him, Natalie dropped her cigarette and started across the sand. The guard, startled, blocked her path and gestured for her to return to the camp.

  “But I wish to see the dunes,” she said in French.

  “It is not allowed. You can see them in the morning.”

  “I prefer now,” she answered. “At night.”

  “It is not safe.”

  “So you’ll come with me. Then it will be safe.”

  With that, she set off across the desert again, followed by the Berber guard. His garments were luminous; his skin, black as pitch, was indistinguishable from the night. She asked his name. He told her he was called Azûlay. It meant “the man with nice eyes.”

  “It is true,” she said.

  Embarrassed, he looked away.

  “Forgive me,” said Natalie.

  They walked on. Overhead, the Milky Way glowed like phosphorus powder, and a minaret moon shone hot and bright. Before them rose three dunes, ascending in scale from north to south. Natalie removed her shoes and, trailed by Azûlay the Berber, climbed the highest dune. It took her several minutes to reach the summit. Exhausted, she dropped to her knees in the warm, soft sand to catch her breath.

  Her eyes searched the land. To the west a thin strand of lights stretched intermittently from Erfoud, through the palm groves of the Tafilalt Oasis, to Rissani and Khamlia. In the east and south there was only empty desert. But to the north Natalie glimpsed a pair of headlights bobbing toward her through the dunes. After a moment the lights vanished. Perhaps, she thought, it had been a mirage, another dream. Then the lights reappeared.

  Natalie turned and scurried down the slope of the dune to the spot where she had left her shoes. You’re the only one who can identify him . . . But he would remember her, too. And why ever not? After all, she thought, I was the one who saved his miserable life.

  54

  Langley, Virginia

  The drones spotted the vehicle long before Natalie did, at five minutes past nine Morocco time, as it emerged from the southeastern corner of the sand sea at Erg Chebbi. Toyota Land Cruiser, white, seven occupants. It stopped at the camp’s edge and six men climbed out, leaving the driver behind. Viewed from above with thermal-imaging technology, it appeared that none of the men walked with a limp. Five, visibly armed, remained at the perimeter of the camp while the sixth strode into the central court between the tents. There he greeted Jean-Luc Martel, then, a few seconds later, Mikhail. As expected, there was no audio coverage; the cellular void of the desert had struck the phones mute. Kyle Taylor, from the back of the room, provided one possible soundtrack of the exchange.

  “Mohammad Bakkar, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Dmitri Antonov. Dmitri, this is Mohammad Bakkar.”

  “Maybe,” said Adrian Carter. “Or maybe Saladin had a little work done to that leg, along with his face.”

  “He couldn’t hide the limp in Washington,” said Uzi Navot. “And he couldn’t hide it from Jean-Luc Martel earlier this year. Besides, does Mikhail look as though he’s talking to the worst terrorist since Bin Laden?”

  “He’s always struck me as a rather cool customer,” said Carter.

  “Not that cool.”

  They were watching the scene through the camera of the Sentinel. Mikhail, greenish and aglow with body heat, stood a few feet from the fire with his arms akimbo, addressing with evident calm the man who had just arrived. Keller and Olivia had already withdrawn from the central court and entered one of the tents. Natalie, after returning from her sojourn in the dunes, had joined them. The Predator was searching the surrounding desert. There were no other heat signatures.

  Navot turned and looked at Kyle Taylor. “Has the NSA identified any new phones in the camp?”

  “They’re working on it.”

  “Odd, don’t you think?”

  “How so?”

  “They’re not that hard to find. We’re quite good at it, but you’re even better.”

  “Unless the phone is powered off and the SIM card is removed.”

  “What about satellite phones?”

  “Easy.”

  “So why isn’t Mohammad Bakkar carrying one? Rather dangerous to be riding around in the desert without a satphone, don’t you think?”

  “Saladin knows that phones are death sentences.”

  “True,” agreed Navot. “But how is Bakkar planning to tell him to come to the camp? Carrier pigeon? Smoke signal?”

  “What’s your point, Uzi?”

  “My point,” said Navot, “is that Mohammad Bakkar isn’t carrying a satphone because he doesn’t need one to signal Saladin.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Saladin is already there.” Navot pointed toward the screen. “He’s the one behind the wheel of the Toyota.”

  55

  The Sahara, Morocco

  Jean-Luc Martel’s physical description of Mohammad Bakkar proved accurate on at least one point; the Moroccan from the Rif Mountains was short, perhaps five foot four inches in height, and stout of build. His religious zealotry was not outwardly evident. He wore no kufi or unkempt beard, and smoked a cigarette in violation of the Islamic State’s ban on tobacco. His clothing was European and expensive. A zippered cashmere sweater, neatly pressed twill pants, a pair of suede moccasins wholly unsuited to the desert. His wristwatch was large, gold, and Swiss; its crystal shone with reflected firelight. His French was excellent, as was his English, which he used to address Mikhail.

  “Monsieur Antonov. It is so nice to finally meet. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “From Jean-Luc?”

  “Jean-Luc is not my only friend in France,” he said confidingly. “You caused quite a sensation in Provence this summer.”

  “It wasn’t my intention.”

  “Wasn’t it?” He smiled genially. “Those parties of yours were all the rage. The stories reached Marrakesh. Quite scandalous.”

  “One has to live one’s life.”

  “Yes, of course. But there are limits, are there not?”

  “I’ve never thought so.”

  At this, Mohammad Bakkar smiled. “I trust you enjoyed the food?”

  “Magnificent.”

  “You like Moroccan cuisine?”

  “Very much.”

  “You’ve been here before? To Morocco?”

  “No, never.”

  “How is that? My country is very popular with sophisticated Europeans.”

  “Not with Russians.”

  “This is true. The Russians prefer Turkey for some reason. But you’re not really a Russian, are you, Monsieur Antonov? Not anymore.”

  Mikhail’s heart banged once against his rib c
age. “I still carry a Russian passport,” he said.

  “But France is your home.”

  “For the time being.”

  Mohammad Bakkar seemed to give this point undue consideration. “And the camp?” he asked, looking around him. “Is it to your liking?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I tried to make it as traditional as possible. I hope you don’t mind the fact that there’s no electricity. The tourists come out here to the Sahara and expect all the creature comforts of their lives in the West. Electricity, phones, the Internet . . .”

  “No Internet here.” Mikhail held up his phone. “Useless.”

  “Yes, I know. That is why I chose this place.”

  Mikhail rose and started to take his leave.

  “Where are you going?” asked Mohammad Bakkar.

  “You and Jean-Luc have business to discuss.”

  “But it concerns you. At least part of it.” Bakkar gestured toward the couches. “Please, sit down, Monsieur Antonov.” Again he smiled. “I insist.”

  At the Casablanca command post, Gabriel watched as Mikhail sat down on one of the couches. A member of the staff appeared, tea was poured. At the right side of the image three human heat signatures were visible inside one of the tents. Two of the signatures were quite obviously female. The other was Christopher Keller. A moment earlier Gabriel had dispatched an encrypted message to Keller’s satellite phone regarding the possible identity of the man behind the wheel of the newly arrived Toyota Land Cruiser. Keller’s hands were now noticeably active, with what Gabriel could not see. Cold metal was not visible via infrared.

  Keller placed the object at the small of his back and moved swiftly to the entrance of the tent, where he stood for several seconds, presumably while he surveyed the operational landscape. Then he took up a satellite phone and worked the screen. A few seconds later a message arrived on Gabriel’s computer.

  ready when you are . . .

  With the aid of the drones, Gabriel surveyed the operational landscape, too. Four men stood watch around the camp in the desert—north, south, east, and west, like points on a compass. All were armed. The men who arrived with Mohammad Bakkar were armed, too. Perhaps Bakkar himself. Mikhail, fearing a search by Bakkar’s men, was not. That meant it would be at least ten against one. The chances were better than even that Keller and the rest of the team would not survive a close-quarters firefight, even one conducted by the man who had achieved the highest score ever recorded in the SAS’s infamous Killing House. Besides, it was possible that Uzi Navot and Langley were mistaken about the identity of the man in the Toyota. Better to let it play out. Better to let him show his face and then take the shot where there was no chance of collateral damage. For the moment, the isolated spot in the darkest corner of southeastern Morocco was their enemy. But not for long. Soon, he thought, the desert would be their ally.

  Gabriel ordered Keller to stand down and asked Langley to focus one of the drone cameras on the Land Cruiser at the camp’s edge. The image appeared on his screen a moment later, courtesy of the Predator. A man wearing a hooded djellaba, both hands resting on the wheel, no cigarette. Gabriel reckoned that eventually he would join the others. To do so, he would have to climb out of the vehicle and walk several paces. And then Gabriel would know whether it was him. A man’s physical appearance could be changed in many ways, he thought. Hair could be cut or dyed, a face could be altered with plastic surgery. But a limp like Saladin’s was forever.

  56

  The Sahara, Morocco

  At first, Mohammad Bakkar spoke only Darija, and only to Jean-Luc Martel. It was obvious from his demeanor and tone that he was angry. Mikhail, during his time with Sayeret Matkal, had learned a bit of Palestinian Arabic, enough to function during night raids in Gaza and the West Bank and southern Lebanon. He was by no means fluent or even conversant. Still, he managed to understand the gist of what the Moroccan from the Rif Mountains was saying. It seemed several large shipments of an unspoken product had recently gone missing under unexplained circumstances. The losses incurred by Bakkar’s organization were substantial—hundreds of millions, in fact. Somewhere, he said, there had been a leak of information. It had not occurred at his end. Evidently, he ran a very tight ship. Therefore, the mistake was clearly Martel’s. Bakkar implied it had been intentional. After all, Martel had never approved of the rapid expansion of their shared business to begin with. Amends would have to be made. Otherwise, Bakkar intended to find another distributor for his product and cut Martel out of the picture entirely.

  A violent quarrel ensued. Martel, in rapid and fluent Moroccan Arabic, implied that Mohammad Bakkar, not he, was to blame for the recent seizures. He reminded Bakkar that he had opposed scaling up the amount of product flowing into Europe, and for this very reason. By his calculation, they were losing more than a quarter of their product to seizures instead of the usual ten percent, an unsustainable rate in the long term. Caution was the only solution. Smaller shipments, no more container vessels. It was, thought Mikhail, a rather impressive performance on Martel’s part. A trained agent could not have done it any better. By the end of it even Mohammad Bakkar appeared convinced that he and his organization were somehow responsible for the leaks. He resolved to get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, he had twenty metric tons of product sitting in his clandestine production facilities in the Rif, awaiting shipment. He was eager to move forward. New funds were clearly needed.

  “I don’t want to bear the costs for the last disaster alone. It isn’t just.”

  “Agreed,” said Martel. “What did you have in mind?”

  “A fifty percent price increase. One time only.”

  “Fifty percent!” Martel waved his hand dismissively. “Madness.”

  “It is my final offer. If you wish to remain my distributor, I suggest you take it.”

  It was not Mohammad Bakkar’s final offer, not even close. Martel knew this, and so did Bakkar himself. This was Morocco, after all. Passing the bread at dinner was a negotiation.

  And on it went for several more minutes, as fifty shrank to forty-five and then forty and finally, with an exasperated glance toward the heavens, thirty. And all the while Mikhail was watching the man who was watching him. The man sitting behind the wheel of the Toyota, with an unobstructed view into the center of the camp. He wore a djellaba with the pointed hood up, and his face was in deep shadow. Even so, Mikhail could feel the leaden weight of his gaze. He could feel, too, the absence of a gun at the small of his back.

  “Khalas,” said Bakkar at last, rubbing his hands together. “Twenty-five it is, payable on receipt of the merchandise. It is far too little, but what choice do I have? Would you like the shirt off my back, too, Jean-Luc? I can always find another.”

  Martel was smiling. Mohammad Bakkar signed the deal with a handshake and then turned to Mikhail.

  “You will forgive me, but Jean-Luc and I had serious business to discuss.”

  “So it seemed.”

  “You don’t speak Arabic, Monsieur Antonov?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Even coffee is a challenge.”

  Mohammad Bakkar nodded sympathetically. “Different pronunciations for different countries. An Egyptian would say the word differently from a Moroccan or a Jordanian or, say, a Palestinian.”

  “Or a Russian,” laughed Mikhail.

  “Who lives in France.”

  “My French is almost as bad as my Arabic.”

  “So we’ll speak English.”

  There was a silence.

  “How much has Jean-Luc told you about our business together?” asked Bakkar finally.

  “Very little.”

  “But surely you must have some idea.”

  “Oranges,” said Mikhail. “You supply the oranges that Jean-Luc uses in his restaurants and hotels.”

  “And pomegranates,” said Bakkar agreeably. “Morocco has very fine pomegranates. The best in the world, if you ask me. But
the authorities in Europe don’t want our oranges and pomegranates. We’ve lost several large shipments lately. Jean-Luc and I were discussing how it happened and what to do next.”

  Mikhail listened, expressionless.

  “Unfortunately, we lost more than just fruit in the recent seizures. Something irreplaceable.” Bakkar looked at Mikhail speculatively. “Or perhaps not.”

  Bakkar beckoned for more tea. Mikhail watched the man in the Toyota while the glasses were filled.

  “What sort of business are you in, Monsieur Antonov?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your business,” repeated Bakkar. “What is it you do?”

  “Oranges,” said Mikhail. “And pomegranates.”

  Bakkar smiled. “It is my understanding,” he said, “that your business is arms.”

  Mikhail said nothing.

  “You’re a careful man, Monsieur Antonov. I admire that.”

  “It pays to be careful. Fewer shipments go missing.”

  “So it’s true!”

  “I am an investor, Monsieur Bakkar. And I have been known on occasion to broker deals that involve the movement of goods from Eastern Europe and the former Soviet republics to troubled places around the world.”

  “What sort of goods?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Guns?”

  “Armaments,” said Mikhail. “Firearms are only a small part of what we do.”

  “What sort of merchandise are we talking about?”

  “Everything from Kalashnikovs to helicopters and fighter jets.”

  “Aircraft?” asked Bakkar, incredulous.

  “Would you like one? Or how about a tank or a Scud? We’re running a special this month. I’d place your order now, if I were you. They won’t last long.”

  “None for me,” said Bakkar, holding up his hands, “but an associate of mine might be interested.”

  “In Scuds?”

  “His needs are very specific. I would prefer to let him explain.”