“Are you really?” Keller smoked in silence for a moment. “Listen, Nouredine, what you do in your spare time is of no concern to me. If you want to make jihad, go ahead. I’d probably make jihad too if I were in your position. But if you use the weapons on French soil, there’s a good chance they’ll be traced back to my boss. And that would make him extremely unhappy.”
“I thought you were the boss.”
A cloud of smoke came billowing across the table. Keller’s eyes watered involuntarily. He had never cared for the smell of Gauloises.
“Say it for me, Nouredine. Swear to me that you won’t use my guns against my countrymen. Promise me you won’t give me a reason to hunt you down and kill you.”
“You’re not threatening me, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I just wouldn’t want you to do something you might regret later. Because if you behave yourself, my boss can get you anything you want. Do you understand?”
The Moroccan crushed out his cigarette, slowly. “Listen, habibi, I’m beginning to lose patience. Shall we make business, or should I find someone else to sell me the guns? Someone who doesn’t ask so many fucking questions.”
Keller said nothing.
“Where are they?”
Keller glanced toward the west.
“Spain?”
“Not quite that far. I’ll take you there, just the two of us.”
“No, you won’t.” Zakaria picked up his mobile and with a second text summoned the Citro?n. “Change in plan.”
“I don’t like changes.”
“Change is good, habibi. It keeps everyone on their toes.”
11
Grasse, France
Keller, as instructed, sat in the passenger seat, with Nouredine Zakaria directly behind him. The Moroccan wondered aloud whether Keller might want to place his hands on the dashboard, a suggestion Keller rejected with a few choice Corsican obscenities and a murmured proverb. Zakaria didn’t bother to ask whether Keller had a gun. Keller was posing as an arms dealer, after all. Zakaria probably assumed he had an RPG in his back pocket.
The Citro?n stopped once on the outskirts of Nice, long enough for another North African to slide into the backseat. He was a smaller version of Zakaria, a year or two younger perhaps, with a deep scar along one cheek. In all likelihood, Keller was now surrounded by three career criminals with ties to ISIS. As a result, he spent the next several minutes choreographing the complex sequence of moves that would be required to extricate himself from the car if the deal went sideways.
There was disagreement over the path they should take from Nice to their destination. Zakaria wanted to use the A8 Autoroute, but Keller convinced him the two-lane D4 was a better option. They picked it up at its source, along the beach near the airport, and followed it into the foothills of the Maritime Alps, through Biot and Valbonne and, finally, to the outskirts of Grasse. Keller glanced into the side-view mirror. It appeared that no other members of the gang were following. He took no comfort in this realization. The final exchange of money for goods was the most dangerous part of any criminal deal. It was not unusual for one of the parties, buyer or seller, to end up with a bullet in his head.
The Orsati Olive Oil Company warehouse in Grasse served as its primary distribution center for all of Provence. Even so, like most Orsati facilities, it was easily missed. It stood on a dusty road called the Chemin de la Madeleine, in an industrial quarter northeast of the town’s historic center. Keller punched the code into the keypad at the front gate and entered the property on foot, followed by the Citro?n. Next he opened the warehouse door and led Zakaria and the one with the scar on his cheek inside. Zakaria was clutching a stainless steel attaché case. Presumably, it contained a sum of sixty thousand euros—three thousand euros for each black-market weapon. Keller thought it a rather fair price. He threw a switch and, overhead, a row of fluorescent lights flickered to life. They illuminated several hundred wooden crates. Three contained weapons, the rest Orsati olive oil.
“Well played,” said the Moroccan.
“This is the part,” replied Keller, “where you show me the money.”
He had expected the usual wrangle over protocol. Instead, Zakaria placed the attaché case on the concrete floor, opened the combination latches, and lifted the lid. Tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds, all bound by rubber bands. Keller lifted one of the bundles to his nose. It smelled faintly of hashish.
Keller closed the attaché case and nodded toward the far corner of the warehouse. Zakaria and the second Moroccan hesitated and then started walking, with Keller a few steps behind, the attaché case dangling from his left hand. Eventually, they came to a neat stack of rectangular crates. With a nod, Keller instructed Zakaria to remove the lid from the topmost. Inside were five AK-47s of Belarusan manufacture. The Moroccan removed one of the guns and inspected it carefully. It was obvious he knew his way around firearms.
“We’re going to need ammunition. I’m interested in acquiring five thousand rounds. Is that sufficient for your organization?”
“I should think so.”
“I was hoping that would be your answer.”
The Moroccan returned the Kalashnikov to the crate. Then he handed Keller a slip of paper, folded in half.
“What’s this?”
“Consider it a small demonstration of goodwill.”
Keller unfolded the paper and saw a few lines of French script rendered in red ink. He looked up sharply.
“Why?” he asked.
“To prove to me that you are not a cop.” The Moroccan paused, then added, “Or a spy.”
“Do I look like a spy to you?”
“Appearances,” said Zakaria, “can be deceiving.” His gaze settled on the second Moroccan, the one with the scar on his face. “Prove it to me, monsieur. Prove that you are really an arms dealer and not a French spy.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then it is highly unlikely you will leave this place alive.”
The second Moroccan was standing a few feet from Keller’s right shoulder, Zakaria directly in front of him, next to the crates. Smiling, Keller allowed the slip of paper to fall from his fingertips. By the time it had fluttered to the floor, he had drawn the Tanfoglio from the small of his back. He aimed it at the face of Nouredine Zakaria.
“Very impressive,” said the Moroccan. “And all the while holding the money. But perhaps you don’t read so well.”
“I read just fine. My hearing is quite good, too. And I’m certain you just threatened me. Big mistake, habibi.” Keller paused, then said, “Fatal, actually.”
Zakaria glanced nervously at the second Moroccan, who made a fumbling attempt to draw a weapon from inside his coat. Keller’s arm swung forty-five degrees to the right, and without hesitation he pulled the trigger of the Tanfoglio twice. The tap-tap of a trained professional. Both shots struck the Moroccan in the center of the forehead. Then the arm swung back to its original position. Had Zakaria remained motionless, he might have presented Keller with a quandary over how to proceed. Instead, he attempted to draw a weapon as well, thus making Keller’s decision instinctual. Tap—tap . . . Another dead Moroccan.