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.”
“Why?”
“Appearances matter.”
“Did she come to the meeting?”
“No. She stayed at the hotel while I went over to Anfa.”
“Anfa?”
It was a wealthy enclave on a hill west of downtown, explained Martel, a place of palm-lined avenues and walled villas where the price per square meter rivaled London and Paris. Mohammad Bakkar owned a property there. As usual, Martel had to submit to a search before being allowed to enter. It was, he recalled now, more invasive than normal. Inside, he had expected to find Bakkar alone, as was customary for their meetings. Instead, another man was present.
“Describe him, please.”
“Tall, broad shoulders, big face and hands.”
“His skin?”
“Dark, but not too.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Western. Dark suit, white shirt, no tie.”
“Scars or distinguishing features?”
“No.”
“Tattoos?”
“I could only see his hands.”
“And?”
Martel shook his head.
“Were you introduced?”
“Barely.”
“Did he speak?”
“Not to me. Only to Mohammad.”
“In Arabic, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Mohammad Bakkar speaks Maghrebi Arabic.”
“Darija,” said Martel.
“And the other man? Was he a Darija speaker, too?”
Martel shook his head.
“You can tell the difference?”
“I learned to speak a bit of Arabic when I was a child. I got it from my mother,” he added. “So, yes, I can tell the difference. He spoke like someone from Iraq.”
“And you didn’t wonder about this man’s affiliation, given the fact that ISIS had taken over much of Iraq and Syria, and established a base of operations in Libya? Or perhaps you didn’t want to know,” added Rousseau contemptuously. “Perhaps it’s better not to ask too many questions in a situation like that.”
“As a general rule,” said Martel, “they can be bad for business.”
“Especially when the likes of ISIS are involved.” Rousseau checked his anger. “And the second meeting? When was that?”
“Last December.”
“After the attacks on Washington?”
“Definitely.”
“The exact date, please.”
“I believe it was the nineteenth.”
“And the circumstances?”
“It was our annual winter meeting.”
“Where did it take place?”
“Mohammad kept changing the location. We finally met in a little village up in the Rif.”
“What was on the agenda?”
“Prices and approximate shipping dates for the new year. Mohammad and the Iraqi wanted to push even more product onto the market. Lots of product. And quickly.”
“How was he dressed this time?”
“Like a Moroccan.”
“Meaning?”
“He was wearing a djellaba.”
“A traditional Moroccan robe with a hood.”
Martel nodded. “And his face was thinner and sharper.”
“He’d lost weight?”
“Plastic surgery.”
“Was there anything else different about him?”
“Yes,” said Martel. “He walked with a limp.”
41
C?te d’Azur, France
There was a part of Paul Rousseau that had no stomach for the deal that would have to be made. Jean-Luc Martel, he would say later, was proof positive France had erred in doing away with the guillotine. But Khalil the Iraqi—Khalil whose face had been altered, Khalil who walked with a limp—was well worth the price. Coercion alone would not be sufficient to drag Martel across the finish line. He would have to be transformed into a full-fledged asset of the Alpha Group—“an operative of French intelligence, so help me God,” lamented Rousseau—and only a promise of full immunity from prosecution would be sufficient to secure his unwavering cooperation. Rousseau had no power to make such a promise; only his minister could. Which presented Rousseau with yet another dilemma, for his minister still knew nothing of the operation. He was a man who, famously, did not like surprises. Perhaps in this case he would find it in his heart to make an exception.
For now, Rousseau held his nose and put Martel through his paces. They went over it all again, slowly, meticulously, forward, backward, sideways, and every other way that Rousseau, who was looking for any inconsistency, any reason to question the authenticity of his source, could imagine. Particular attention was paid to the agenda of the winter meeting where Khalil the Iraqi had been present, especially the schedule for upcoming deliveries. Three large shipments were due in the next ten days. All would be concealed inside cargo ships bound from Libya. Two would be arriving at French ports—Marseilles and nearby Toulon—but the third would dock in the Italian port of Genoa.
“If those drugs go missing,” said Martel, “there’s going to be hell to pay.”